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A STRUGGLE FOR A 


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RING. 



BY BERTHA M. CLAY. 





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POPULAR NOVELS 

BY 

BERTHA M. CLAY. 


THROWN ON THE WORLD $1.50 

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A STKUGGLE FOK A RING. 

A Novel. 


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** THROWN ON THE WORLD,” “REPENTED AT LEISURE," 
“ BETWEEN TWO LOVES,” “ A BITTER ATONEMENT,” 

“Evelyn's folly,” etc.,, etc. 


“ On one she smiled, and he was blest; 

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Fair child ! — it was the bliss within.” 


.ir X, 


'( NOV 25 1332 

vv 

NEW YORk‘^^OFWAS?Hi»S'''-°- 


G. Cariefon Co., Publishers. 

Jt .i' 

^ STREET k SMITH, New York Weekly. 

— , MDCCCLXXXIII. 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1882, 

, By Street & Smith,- 

in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 




FRANCIS S. STREET,) 

y Proprietors and Pt^lishtrs 

FRANCIS S. SMITH, 5 

OF THE 

NEW YORK WEEKLY, 

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To 

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Who, for nearly twenty years, have stood faithfully by 
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TO WHOM OUR PET JOURNAL HAS BECOME A HOUSEHOLD 
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VOLUME IS RESPECTFULLY 
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By the Publishers, 

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CONTENTS 


ft 


CHAPTER. ' PAGE. 

I. — Young Women Not Admitted 9 

II. — A Meeting, and a Promise 15 

III. — What Shall We Do 23 

IV. — Deciding Her Fate 30 

V. — Saving a Woman’s Honor 'i 37 

VI. — A Bride’s Letters 43 

VII. — A Shocked Husband ’. 51 

VIII. — “Keep My Name and Rank a Secret.” 58 

IX. — Welcoming a Son-in-law 65 

X. — An Old Man Cheered 72 

XI. — A Sister’s Advice 79 

XII. — The Parting 86 

XIII. — A Proud Family 93 

XIV. — Sister and Wife Contrasted 100 

XV. — A Mother’s Stratagem 107 

XVI. — A Husband’s Caution 115 

XVII. — “ Give Me Love or Hate.” 122 

XVIII.— The Spell Works 129 

XIX. — A Dream of the Sea 136 

XX. — Love and Regret 143 

XXL — An Anxious Mother 150 

XXIL— The Meeting 157 

XXIII. — A Strange Parting 164 

XXIV. — Almost Forgotten 171 

XXV. — Madame Roubart’s Pupil 178 

XXVL— /t School 184 

XXVII. — Madame Roubart’s Advice I90 

XXVIII. — To Win a Husband’s Heart 196 

XXIX.— Ailie’s Welcome 202 

XXX. — A Surprise 209 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER. - ■ , , PAGE. 

XXXL—A “Society” Home 215 

XXXIL— Lady Etheh 221 

XXXIIL — Coming Home 227 

XXXIV.— “He is My Husband.” 234 

XXXV. — A Wife Decorating a Rival 240 

XXXVI.— A Wife’s Agony 246 

XXXVIL- -Unhappy 253 

XXXVIII. — An Amazed Husband 259 

XXXIX. — “ My Love is My Torture.” 265 

XL. — Ailie’s Promise 272 

XLI. — An Embarrassing Situation 279 

XLIL — A Crushed Flower 285 

XLIII. — A Trying Position 292 

XLIV. — A Young Lady’s Hint 298 

XLV. — The Husband’s Promise 304 

XLVL — Dressing a Rival 311 

XLVII. — A Wife’s Strange Position 317 

XLVIIL— A Wife’s Hope 324 

XLIX.— “ Do You Love Me ?” 330 

L. — “I Would Die to Free You.” 337 

LI. — Admiration is Not Love 343 

LII. — “I Cannot Sin for You.” 350 

LIII. — A,Separation Discussed 356 

LIV — “ That Seals my Fate !” 362 

LV.— Watched 369 

LVI. — A Startling Accusation 375 

LVIL— “I Will Suffer for Him.” 381 

LVIII.— “ I Will Not Forget.” 388 

LIX. — “You HaveiCruelly Misjudged Me.” 394 

LX. — Banished. . . ^ 401 

LXI. — Lord Carsdale’s Return 407 

LXII. — “ I Am a Coward.” 414 

LXIIL— “This Girl is My Wife.” 420 

LXIV. — “You Have Destroyed My Life.” 427 

LXV. — A Noble Woman’s Advice 433 

LXVI. — The White-faced Lady 440 

LXVII.— Won at I>ast 446 

LXVIII. — Angels of Peace 453 


A STRUGGLE FOR A RING 


CHAPTER I. 

YOUNG WOMEN NOT ADMITTED. 

*‘Oh, God, I am so young, so young ; 

I am not used to balls at night 
Instead of slumber — nor to prayer 
With sobbing lips and hands outwrung.” 

E. B. Browning. 

The head and front of his offense — the beginning and 
end of his wrong-doing — the one mistake of his life-time 
was — that he married her. He, Lord Vivian Carsdale, 
only son and heir of the Earl of Waldrove, married Alice 
Derwent, the daughter of John Derwent, dancing-master 
by profession — married her with far less thought than he 
would have bestowed on choosing a hunter or a hound — 
married her from a good, honest, hcmorable, mistaken 
impulse, yielding to the weakness of his character which 
made him look always for the easiest way out of a diffi- 
culty, and sacrifice the future to present ease. 

It happened in this way : Lord Vivian Carsdale had 
gone through the usual routine of English education ; he 
had been to Eton and Oxford ; he had made the grand 
tour; but even then his father, the Earl of Waldrove, was 


lO 


YOUNG WOMEN NOT ADMITTED, 


not satisfied, ^ord Vivian was just nineteen, and he 
expected from him the learning, the solidity, the wit, and 
the wisdom of a man of thirty. Very much against his 
son’s will, he made arrangements with Doctor Wallis, one 
of the finest scholars in England, to receive his son as a * 
boarder for one year, and during that year he was to be 
fitted to take his place as a statesman and an orator. He 
had the natural gift of eloquence — this handsome young 
stripling to whom fortune had been so kind. He w'as to 
remain for one year with Doctor Wallis to study states- 
manship as a science, to read all the written speeches cf 
great men, from Demosthenes downward, to cultivate the 
art itself; but before the young lord had been with him 
long, the doctor, who was a keen reader of character, 
wrote to the earl, strongly advising him to procure for his 
. son a commission in the army, and to let him see a few 
years’ service before he entered on his parliamentary career. 

“There is a fund of romance in the young man,” wrote 
the doctor, “a fund of simplicity, a child-like directness 
of purpose, and want of thought that will cause him, 
sooner or later, to make great mistakes. The best means 
of counteracting this will be to let him see some of the 
most active and most commonplace grooves of life.” 

Lord Waldrove was amazed, still he had no thought of 
opposing this wise counsel. It was arranged that his son 
should remain for the year with Doctor Wallis, then his 
commission should be purchased, and he should join the 
army. That was the beginning of the chain of circum- 
stances that ended in his mariiage. 

Doctor Wallis was a man of brilliant attainments ; he 
had a very moderate fortune, which he eked out by taking 
* four gentlemen bcarders of an unusual style — sons of 
noblemen, either remarkable for their talent or those who 


YOUNG WOMEN NOT ADMITTED. 


1 1 

required stern discipline to keep them in hand. He had 
been very successful. Some of his scholars — the men 
whom he had coached— made a great mark in the world. 
Some young men sent to him as refractory, disobedient, 
idle, useless, induced to be too fast to live, had been sent 
back to their parents wiser, steadier, and in every sense of 
the word reformed ; so that the doctor had quite a reputa- 
tion. Few were able to afford the luxury of sending their 
sons to such a place ; those who could do so appreciated 
the blessing. The doctor belonged to a good family, and 
he was proud of it. * A 

*‘It is no use expecting your boys to be formed inM 
gentlemen unless you send them to a gentleman,'’ he was 
wont to say; “a third-rate man has only third-rate man- 
ners. ” 

But the doctor had one weak place in his armor, one 
skeleton in his closet. He was a rigid martinet in the way 
of morals; no young man ever found time for flirtation 
in his house*; it seemed to have been built with the express 
purpose of keeping all women at a distance ; no pretty 
maid-servants were ever to be found lurking about the 
halls and staircases; no pretty girls waited at table or 
attended to the wants of the young gentlemen. The doc- 
tor was far too wise ; he had a discreet, motherly house- 
keeper, two grim, elderly maid-servants, a butler, and a 
footman. No woman under the hge of forty was ever 
allowed to enter his doors. ** ^ 

Of all establishments in the world it ^^as the fast from 
which any one w'ould imagine a clandestine marriage — the 
very last. People had such faith in the doctor; they told 
each other that their boys could not go to a safer place — 
the doctor was so very particular. 

Then for this to happen I The doctor had one shadow 


12 


YOUNG WOMEN NOT ADMITTED. 


hanging over him, and it was this : He had but one 
sister, a light-hearted, laughing girl, of whom he was very 
fond, and she — this was his trouble — eloped,, when she was 
seventeen years of age, with her dancing-master. The 
doctor never told this, the trouble of his life, but to one 
person, his dearest friend, and then his words were strong. 

“I wash my hands of her forever,” he said. “A 
dancing-master! I give you my sacred word of honor 
that if she had married a private soldier I should have 
respected her twice as much. But a dancing-master ! I 
hardl^^^lieve such people have'^^ls.” 

His indignation was intense; he never pardoned her; it 
was, in his eyes, a most terrible mesalliance. 

“A fiddle and a tombstone,” he said, over and over 
again, “could not be more opposite than a lady, a cler- 
gyman s sister, and^a dancing-master.” 

Doctor Wallis did, after a worldly fashion, the wisest 
thing that he could do — he left the town where he was 
known and began life afresh at Ladywell. There he made 
for himself fame and a reputation, and this one terrible 
drawback was never known. 

Some twelve years after his sister’s marriage she wrote to 
him. 

“For God’s sake, Richard,” she said, “forget your 
pride and remember whose minister you are. Do not 
preach mercy and leave your only sister to starve. My 
husband has been ill for three months ; I have no food for 
myself or my children. You will not like to read in a 
daily paper that I had been found, with my babe in my 
arms, starved to death. That will happen unless you 
come to my rescue.” 

That same day the doctor announced to his pupils that 
he was compelled to leave Ladywell lor a day or two; in 


YOUNG WOMEN NOT ADMITTED. 


13 

the meantime the Rev. Horace Treselan would take his 
place. 

He went to London, where he found the unfortunate 
dancing-master still prostrate with low fever, his sister and 
her children absolutely without food. 

His heart melted ; he emptied his purse, but his pride 
was too great — he would not touch the burning hand that 
John Derwent held out to him. True, he was a clergy- 
man ; he was also a gentleman — and the gentleman was 
uppermost just then. 

He was sorry for his siste r — willing to help her, ''ven to 
acknowledge her; he could preach most eloquently about 
mercy, charity, and peace. He had written a long and 
able Latin treatise on the subject of family ties, but he 
could not call the dancing-master “brother;” that was 
impossible. ^ 

He emptied his purse; he promised to send fruit, wine, 
and meat. He announced his intention of settling a cer- 
tain small income on his sister, so that she should never 
be reduced to such absolute poverty again. Then he took 
his leave, leaving a burning sense of degradation and 
shame behind him. Perhaps his heart relented ever so 
little when he saw the dancing-master’s haggard eyes look 
wistfully after him. 

) “Good-by, sir,” said John Derwent. “I would not 
^ take your money if I were strong and well, but God has 
laid me low, and I cannut help myself. If ever I can, sir, 
I will repay you ” 

The kind Doctor Wallis left the room, not quite satis- 
fied with himself, but wholly unable to overcome his pride. 
As he walked down the dark, narrow stairs, a warm, soft 
hand clasped his. 

“Uncle,” said a child’s clear voice, “do be kind to me. 


14 


YOUNG WOMEN NOT ADMITTED. 


I never have enough to eat — 1 have hardly any clothes to 
wear — I long to learn something sensible ; I am so tired 
of dancing and the sound of the violin. Do be kind to 
me, uncle, and send me to school/’ 

The doctor looked, and saw what even he knew to be a 
most lovely child standing before him — a child with a fair 
face and great starry eyes, a profusion of fair silken hair 
falling over a white neck. 

“Send me to school, uncle, she repeated; “indeed I 
will try to be a clever girl.” 

The words that really won him were those in which she 
declared she was tired of the sound of the violin. 

“ I should think so,” he said to himself. Then, noting 
the exquisite beauty of the girl, he said to himself, with a 
sudden impulse of generosity: “I will save her; if she 
grows up pretty aid clever they will be quite sure to make 
an actress of her, or a dancer, or something of that terri- 
ble kind. I will save her. What is your name?” 

“ Alice,” was the brief reply. 

Doctor Wallis looked down at her. 

“If I send you to school, Alice, clothe you, educate 
you, will you promise me to be a good woman?” 

“Yes, I will, I will, indeed,” she replied, earnestly. 
“Try me, uncle.” 

He went back into the room. 

“Fanny,” he said to his sister, “this child seems pretty, 
clever, and ambitious. I will educate her; I will find out 
a'titting school for her, and will send you money to pro- 
vide her with clothes.” 

He saw his sister’s face fall, not brighten. 

“Are you not pleased?” he asked, calmly. 

“Alice is our best pupil,” slid Mrs. Derwent; “her 
dancing would have brought us something in soon.” 


A MEETING, AND A PROMISE. 


15 


The child looked wistfully at him. 

love music,” she said ; “but I do not like dancing.” 

These words decided the doctor. 

* ‘ Let it be as I wish, ” he said ; and the parents con- 
sented. 

So Alice Derwent was sent to Germany for her educa- 
tion, and she received a good one. She remained there 
until she had reached her seventeenth year, then she was 
to return home. She spent some weeks with her parents, 
then, w’ithout an invitation, went to Ladywell to see the 
doctor — entered that stronghold of bachelorhood much to 
the doctor’s dismay. 

“You here!” he cried, in dismay, when he saw a tall, 
beautiful, slender girl standing with outstretched hands 
before him. 

“ I am here to thank you, uncle,” she said, in a clear, 
musical voice. 

“ Yes, yes — very well ; that is all right, of course; but 
you must not come here, Alice. I allow no woman under 
forty to enter this house.” 

Alice raised her lovely eyes in wonder. 

“Under forty! Do tell me why, uncle — tell me why?” 


CHAPTER II. 

A MEETING, AND A PROMISE. 

An additional shade of severity came over the face of 
Doctor Wallis. 

“ I should have imagined,” he said, “that ^en a child 
would have understood why; and you are no longer a 


1 6 W MEETING, AND A PROMISE, 

child, Alice. I have here intrusted to my care some of 
the noblest youths in England. I must do my duty by 
them, and the great duty of all is to keep them from 
temptation. I have not forgotten the Legend of St. An- 
thony ; therefore I allow no women, no girls, about my 
house, so that there may be no falling in love, no nonsense 
of unequal marriage. You understand, Alice?" 

She looked at him with innocent, child-like eyes. 

*‘Not quite, uncle. No one is obliged to fall in love, 
are they?" 

“We need not discuss the subject,” said the doctor; 
“ it is sufficient for you to know my resolve." 

“I am sorry to kngw it," said Alice, with her girlish 
dignity and girlish pride all in arms; “for I am very 
grateful to you, uncle, and I want to prove it." 

He saw tears in the beautiful blue eyes, whose sweetness 
years ago had toucifed his heart. 

. “I will go back, " she said ; “lam sorry that I came, 
uncle. I wanted to show you that I had made some 
progress; I will go home." 

She held out a little white hand to him, and the doctor’s 
heart was touched. 

“There is no need for that," he said, hastily. “I — 1 
should be glad to see you for a day or two, but you must 
keep entirely to the housekeeper’s rooms ; you must give 
me your word of honor that you will never even cross the 
passage. I shall go to Mrs. Chawner’s room when I wish 
to see you. Do you give me your promise ?" 

She held out her hand to him with a bright, amused 
smile — a smile that made her look so lovely, the doctor’s 
heart sank within him. 

“I promise," she replied; it seemed so very absurd to 
her. 


A MEETING, AND A PROMISE. 


17 

The doctor rang his bell, which was answered by the 
housekeeper. 

“Mrs. Chawner," he said, gravely, “this is my niece — 
Miss Derwent. She is here for a few days that I may see 
what progress she has made in her studies ; you will be 
very kind and attentive to her. See also that my directions 
are fully carried out — that Miss Derwent does not leave 
your rooms. ” 

Mrs. Chawner looked with astonishment at the beautiful 
girl, with her fair face, her blue eyes, and fair, waving hair. 
Never had such an apparition been seen in that house 
before. She bowed low. 

“Are Lord Vivian’s things, most of them, packed.?” 
asked the doctor. 

' “Yes, sir; they are ready. His lordship thought of* 
going on Thursday. His luggage was to wait, he said, 
until it was sent for. ” 

“Thank you,” said the doctor, in his grave, stately 
fashion ; and the housekeeper knew that she was dismissed 
with those words. 

Alice thought to herself, “What a beautiful name — 
Lord Vivian ! It is like a name in a novel.” 

She went away with Mrs. Chawner, and spent the dullest 
day of her life in that good woman’s room. There were . 
only two books in it — the Bible and “Sir Charles Grandi- 
son.” She took refuge in the latter. True, every attention 
was paid to her. Mrs. Chawner brought her a delicious 
little dinner, a very nice tea, and a nice supper ; then the 
doctor came and talked to her aboutj^er studies. 

“It is \vorse than a prison,” thouight Alice. 

She longed to know whal^ was going on in the other 
parts of the house; she heard music, singing, the sound 


1 8 A MEETING, AND A PROMISE. 

of voices, and she was shut up, as she said to herself, like 
an early Christian martyr. 

The next day dawned in the same dreary fashion ; but 
there was hope coming — an incident was to happen which 
proved how the very best laid plans of men are often all 
in vain. No one, except Mrs. Chawner and the servants, 
knew that the doctor s niece had arrived. The doctor 
went out that day at noon to call upon a gentleman in the 
neighborhood who wished to see him ; Mrs. Chawner was 
busy preserving fruit ; and, as ill-luck would have it. Lord 
Vivian Carsdale, in doing something or other which he 
need not have done, cut two of his fingers rather severely ; 
equally, as a matter of course, there was no plaster to be 
found. 

“Never mind,'*’ said Lord Vivian to one of his com- 
panions; “I will go to the housekeepers room. Mrs. 
Chawner always keeps a store of those things. ” 

Without a thought that he was going to his fate, with- 
out dreaming of all that would ensue from that one visit, 
he went and knocked at the door; a sweet, clear, musical 
voice bade him enter. Wondering, full of amaze, he went 
in; and in place of Mrs. Chawner, he saw one of the 
most beautiful girls in the world. Tall, graceful, and 
slender ; a figure all graceful curves and lines, full of sym- 
metry; a face perfect in its fresh, fair, girlish loveliness; 
bright blue eyes, like bright stars, looked up into his, and 
the two stood looking at each other in silence. Alice saw 
a dark, handsome face, with patrician written on every 
feature ; a tall, well-built figure ; dark, beautiful eyes ; a 
handsome mouth, shaded by a dark mustache; and Alices 
simple, girlish heart went out in admiring awe. 

“ I beg pardon,” said the gentleman ; “I thought Mrs. 
Chawner'was here.” 


A MEETING, AND A PROMISE. 


19 


*‘I will find her/’ said Alice, “at once, if you wish.” 

“No, never mind, I thank you then he looked at her 
more earnestly. “Are you related to Mrs. Chawner.?” he 
asked, abruptly. 

“No,” she replied ; “I am the doctor’s niece.” 

Again the dark eyes opened wider with wonder. 

“The doctor! I did not know that he had any rela- 
tives; he never speaks of any.” 

“No,” said Alice, with simple candor, that charmed 
him. “We are poor relations; he is not likely to speak 
of us.” 

“You may be poor,” thought Lord Vivian, “but you 
are beautiful enough to be an empress. ” 

Alice looked at him again with some little perplexity in 
her face. 

“Would you be kind enough not to say that you have 
seen me?” she said. “My uncle forbade me to leave 
this part of the house, and he would be annoyed if he 
knew. ” 

“I will not mention it,” said Lord Vivian. He was 
not exactly in love with her, but he thought her the most 
bewitchingly beautiful girl he had ever seen. It was only 
natural that, having this little confidence established be- 
tween them, they should talk for a few minutes longer. 
Then Lord Vivian said, suddenly: “I must go, or some 
one will find me here.” He had forgotten the wounded 
fingers. “I do not like to think, though, that I shall 
never see you again. Yet you are guarded like a state 
prisoner. Would you like to see me again — do you care 
for it?” 

Sweet, simple Alice 1 She looked for one half moment 
into the depths of those dark eyes, then her own fell. 


20 


A MEETING, AND A PROMISE. 


and a crimson flush covered her face. He took her hand ^ 
in his. 

“ Nay,” he said, “do not fear to tell me. I feel sure 
that we are destined to see each other again. If you will 
only say that you care for it, I will manage it. Do you 
care?” 

The girl did not live who could have resisted the charm 
of that caressing manner, that fascinating smile and voice. 

“Do you care?” he whispered again. 

“Yes,” she replied. 

The next moment he was gone, and she heard Mrs. 
Chawner’s heavy footsteps in the corridor. She had just 
time to turn away to hide her flushed face and trembling 
hands at the window. Mrs. Chawner came with a long 
story of the cook’s negligence. Alice never heard one 
W’ord ; she had gone into fairy-land ; she might suffer 
there, but she would never leave it again ; the world had 
changed for her in these few minutes. Then a messenger 
came to say that Lord Vivian wished to see the house- 
keeper at once — would she come to his room ? 

Lord Vivian ! The name struck her at once — it was 
Lord Vivian she had seen. 

Perhaps those who read have had their love in their 
youth, and can remember how fair and sweet that love- 
dream was. To Alice Derwent — Alice who had never 
known one hour of real enjoyment, who lived in dreams, 
not realities — it seemed as though she had found . heaven 
on earth. 

That same evening she received a note; long years 
afterward every word of it seemed to burn in heart and 
brain, yet it was only a boy’s foolish love-letter, with less 
of truth, less of meaning than lies in the birds' song or 
the winds’ whisper. It said : 


A MEETING, AND A PROMISE, 


21 


“I hope you will not be angry with me for writing, but 
I have been thinking of you ever since I saw you. It 
must have been a kind fate that led me to you. I am 
leaving here in a few days; let me see you once more. 
There is a beautiful walk here, called the ‘ Fairy Glen." 
Will you be there at three toxmorrow afternoon.? I shall 
await you — as Romeo awaited Juliet.'" 

No objection was raised when she asked permission to 
go out. Do not blame her too severely ; she was young 
and beautiful, she loved pleasure and happiness, she saw 
no harm in taking this great bliss offered to her. She 
spent the happiest hour of her life in the glen — the very 
happiest; every hour after that had a shadow over it. She 
told him all the simple history of her life, the uncongenial 
home, the dull, dreary school. He was more struck by 
her fear of the doctor than anything else; he could under- 
stand and appreciate it. 

“You will be happy sometime,"’ he said, looking into 
her beautiful face. “I am not very old, nor a great 
philosopher, but I have always noticed one thing — people 
have to be unhappy in some part of their lives ; it is better 
to have it over while you are young. With a face like 
yours, fortune could not be hard always. Tell me, have 
you really never had one happy day.?"' 

‘ ‘ No, ’" she replied ; ‘ ‘ never. "" 

“That seems hard. I should like you to have that. 
We may not meet again just yet, but I should like you to 
connect me with the happiest day in your life. I have a 
grand plan in my mind. If you would like — if you would 
have courage — one happy day is a great deal to think of. 
Are you brave .?"" 

‘ ‘ I think so, ” she replied. 


22 


A MEETING, AND A PROMISE, 


“And you would like to have one day quite happy — to 
think of ever afterward?” 

“Indeed I should, Lord Vivian.” 

“Then I will show you how we can have it. I need 
not leave here until Satusday, but I am going on Thursday 
morning to avoid the great nuisance of the year — the 
school fete. The doctor goes, his students go, his servants 
go — I detest it. On Thursday there is a grand regatta at 
Fernbay. We will go if you like — if you are brave enough. 
I will show you how. Fernbay is thirty miles from here. 
When 1 say good-by to the doctor here, instead of going 
home, I shall, without saying a word to him, go to Fern- 
bay. Then you will find every one goes early to the fete — 
be sure the doctor will not invite you — you may be equally 
sure that the servants will never think of you ; between 
the two you will be quite safe. Then, when they are all 
gone, go down to the station and take the train to Fern- 
bay. I will meet you there; we will have the grandest 
day you can imagine, and I will bring you back in the 
evening. . You will reach home before they do — they do 
not break up till after ten ; you will be home by nine. 
Then the servant who admits you will think you have 
come home alone from the fete) those who return from 
the fete will think that you have spent the day in the 
house. Are you brave enough for this, Alice.? — I like 
Alice better than Miss Derwent.” 

She sighed deeply. It was a terrible temptation — a 
whole happy, sunny day spent with this handsome man, 
who admired her so greatly. No harm done ; no wit- 
nesses to tell. It was a great temptation. 

“lam afraid,” she said, faintly. 

“The woman who deliberates is lost or won,” laughed 
Lord Carsdale. “You ne^d not fear. See, I was so sure 


^^IVI/AT StIALL H'E DOT 


23 


you would consent that I bought you a ticket. This takes 
you to Fernbay, admits you to the regatta, and brings you 
back. You must not say ‘no,' Alice. I pledge you my 
word all will be well.” 

It was the sight of the ticket that decided her. In an 
evil moment she yielded, and, looking up at him with a 
smile, said : 

“I will go. Lord Carsdale, if you are sure all will be 
well. ” 


CHAPTER III. 

“what shall we do.?” 

Every difficulty was only too easily overcome. No one 
in that severely classical and moral mansion had the least 
idea that its chief ornament and the doctor’s niece had 
met. On the Thursday morning the handsome young 
lord bade farewell to his tutor and companions. Soon 
after he had gone, the doctor, with his “young friends,” 
went off to the /ete, the young friends feeling very much 
aggrieved at being compelled to lose a day. Doctor 
Wallis had said nothing to his niece of the /ele. 

“If I tell her, she will want to go,” he argued, 
“and she cannot go. I would not have her seen for the 
world. ” 

The only servant left in charge of the house saw Alice 
Derwent leave it, and naturally thought she had gone with 
the rest of the world to Lady well Woods. 

The coast was quite clear — there was not an obstacle to 


24 


^^WHAT SHALL WE DO?^^ 


be overcome. Still the girl's heart beat high with excite- 
ment; it was a terrible, almost an awful thing to do, 
yet she liked the excitement, and enjoyed the danger^ 
as the young and thoughtless always do. 

It was such a day — so unutterably, so entirely, so sur- 
passingly happy, that she could never forget it — so bright, 
so sunshiny. Lord Carsdale met her at the station with a 
carriage. In all her life before she had never been in 
a carriage. There was no single thing that could add to 
her happiness forgotten by him. He took her to a first- 
class hotel, and gave her a dinner such as she never 
di earned of; then they went down to the lovely, smiling, 
happy sea. He did not make love to her ; he was not 
exactly in love with her. He admired her greatly ; he had 
a kindly, compassionate, brotherly liking for her — not a 
passionate love. She was a beautiful, unhappy child, with 
heart and soul full of longing— a beautiful, graceful girl 
whom fortune and fate had flung in his way ; and he had 
stepped aside, as it were, to give her a little happiness. 

Of harm or wrong he had no thought ; the dancing- 
master’s daughter was sacred to him as though she were a 
princess. He had a reverence for all women. He would 
never have dreamed e\en ever so faintly of behaving differ- 
ently to her; because she was young, beautiful, alone, be- 
neath him in position, seemed to him all reasons why he 
should treat her with greater respect. He had not for one 
moment thought of harm when he offered her this one 
day of happiness. True, he would not have offered it to a 
daughter of the Duchess of Helyton ; but then every rank 
has its customs. In the class to which Alice belonged, a 
day’s holiday of that kind was not entirely wrong. He 
showed his appreciation of her purity and singleness of 
heart in this fashion ; he never offered to buy anything for 


^'WHAT SHALL WE DOP^ 


25 


her but flowers. Alice loved flowers with passionate love. 
He filled her hands with roses and lilies, with cape jessa- 
mine and clove carnations. He showed her everything 
that was worth seeing at Fernbay. Then he turned to her 
with a smile : 

“Alice, our happy day has almost ended; it is nearly 
seven — we must go to the station soon. You shall have 
some tea first.” 

She had some tea in a beautiful room overlooking the 
sea. 

‘ ‘ I shall never forget this day, ” she said to him. ‘ ‘ I 
shall have to work hard all my life — very hard ; I do not 
look forward to any pleasure or any happiness. This will 
be the one day of my life — it holds brightness enough to 
brighten all my life.” 

“ I am very glad, Alice,” he said, with unaffected kind- 
ness. “In the years to come, if I can help you in 
any way — you must always remember that I am your 
friend — I shall be so pleased to assist you. We have been 
good friends — have we not, Alice?” 

The beautiful face dropped and flushed a little. 

Yes, they were good friends to-night ; King Cophetua, 
they say, was a friend of the beggar-girl. Oh I if she were 
but nearer to him — nearer in position and birth. 

Then Lord Carsdale laughed. 

“Only to think how famously we have cheated the 
doctor,” he said. “He must have thought himself very 
clever to imagine that he could keep a pretty girl like you 
from being seen. What would he say if he knew?” 

“He would kill me,” she said, calmly; “and do you 
know. Lord Carsdale, I think my father would kill me if 
he knew, though I have done nothing wrong, you know, 


26 


^^WIIAT SHALL WE DOT 


Still he is so particular and so violent in his temper, 
he would kill me, I believe.” 

She shuddered a little as she spoke, but sat quite still. 
Her words had a strange effect on the young lord. 

“lam afraid I have been selfish,” he said; “but I was 
so desirous of giving you a little pleasure — I thought you 
seemed so sad for a young girl.” 

“You have not done wrong, Lord Carsdale. You will 
think what I am going to say strange, but it is true. If 
any one had told me that my death was to be the price of 
this days enjoyment, I should have been willing to die.” 

The blue eyes were filled with a strange light ; the sweet 
scarlet lips quivered as she spoke. 

Lord Carsdale looked at her in amaze. 

“Willing to give all your life for this one day’s 
pleasure?” he repeated. 

“Yes,” she said, gently, “since this one day holds in 
itself the happiness of a life-time.” 

“Poor child!” thought the young lord, “how fair, 
sweet, and loving she is. I wish I could do more for her. 
I must talk to ‘my mother about her ; she can befriend 
her. ” 

He was very much struck with the words ; it did not 
occur to him that the girl had fallen in love wdth him, and 
loved him with a wild, deep, romantic passion — so deep 
that she spoke truly when she said she would have pur- 
chased such a day’s happiness with her life. 

“We must not forget the time,” he said. “See, Alice, 
the sun is going down ; I had better order the carriage. ” 

While Lord Carsdale spoke to the servants, she went out 
on the balcony that overlooked the sea ; the sun was set- 
ting, and a great crimson light fell over the water. 

“Good-by, happy day!” she said; “good-by, fair, 


^^WHAT SHALL WE DO?'* 


27 


smiling sea! You have chanted sweet music to me all 
day. Good-by, bright, dear sun I You will never shine 
so brightly for me again. I feel as Eve must have felt 
when she left the sweet-scented Garden of Paradise. 
Good-by 1” 

Then they drove to the station. How it happened can 
never be told — whether Lord Carsdale had mistaken the 
time for the train, whether Alice had lingered too long on 
the balcony, whether they had driven too slowly — for some 
cause or other they were too late ; the train had started, 
and there was no other that night for Ladywell. Lord 
Carsdale was shocked himself when he heard it ; his hand- 
some face paled, his kindly heart ached. True, it was all 
his own fault, but it would not hurt him. She would have 
to suffer. For the first time in his life he felt something 
like fear as he went up to the young girl, whose very life 
lay, as it were, in his hands. 

Alice,” he said, gently. 

She turned to him a startled face. 

“Oh, Lord Carsdale, what is it? Why do you look 
like that? What is the matter?” 

“lam very sorry,” he said, even more gently; “but we 
are late — the train has gone. ” 

He never forgot the deadly, awful despair that came over 
her face — the ghastly pallor — how the blue eyes darkened 
with awful fear. 

“Good Heaven !” she said, in a hoarse whisper, “what 
shall we do?” 

“ Do not distress yourself,” he said. “It is seven now ; 
I will order a carriage, and we will drive there. We shall 
be in time, do not fear. ” 

She clasped her trembling hand round his arm. 


28 


^^WHAT SHALL WE DO?^^ 


‘*Do you think so?” she said; "‘are you sure, Lord 
Carsdale?” 

“Yes, I am sure. Do not tremble, Alice; I will do 
all I can ; trust me. ” 

He was distressed for her because he saw what she suf- 
fered. He did his best to obtain a carriage quickly, 
but the day was unfortunate — the day of the regatta; 
all the carriages were out or hired — there was nothing 
to be had. When at last he succeeded it was half-past 
seven. Alice had no watch, and he carefully kept the 
time from her. Half-past seven, and it was quite thirty 
miles ! Unless she was there by nine, it would all be use- 
less. Lord Carsdale went to the driver. 

“I will give you five pounds,” he said, “if you will 
take us to Ladywell, to reach there by nine. ” 

The- driver laughed. 

“I should be glad enough, sir, of five pounds, but 
I could not do that if you offered me fifty — it is not 
possible. ” 

‘ ‘ Do the best you can, ” said Lord Carsdale, hurriedly ; 
and the next moment they were going fast along the white 
high-road. 

The shadows of night fell slowly, slowly, and slowly. 
Alice watched them with frightened eyes. 

“ It is growing dark. Lord Carsdale,” she would say. 

‘ ‘ So much the better, Alice ; no one can recognize us. ” 

The green fields and the corn-fields, the meadows filled 
with rich grain, the tall, swaying trees, the ffowery banks, 
were all passed with amazing rapidity. The stars began to 
shine in the blue sky ; the night wind was filled with sweet 
odors. More and more deadly grew the fear in the girl’s 
heart. 


^^WHAT SHALL WE DO?'' 


29 

“What are you thinking about, Alice?” he asked, 
seeing her white compressed lips. 

“lam thinking,” she said, with that same strange light 
in her eyes, “that I can only die.” 

“Die!” he repeated; “my dear Alice, you need not 
fear. See, we are almost flying along — we could not 
go more quickly; we shall be there in time, do not fear.” 

But fate was against them. The horse grew tired ; the 
driver began to apologize. 

“I thought he could not keep up that speed,” he said. 
“You see, sir, being the regatta day, the horses, like the 
men, have been busy all day. I should say, this one has 
been to the station twenty times and more. ” 

It was with a great eflbrt that the horse stumbled along, 
while the darkness of night fell over the land, and the 
girl’s heart almost ceased to beat with fear. It was quite 
dark at last — there was no light save that of the stars, no 
sound save the rustling of the swaying boughs, and the 
heavy, labored action of the tired horse. 

“Alice, are you crying ?” asked Lord Carsdale. 

She tried to steady her voice before she answered him. 

‘ ‘ No, ” she replied ; “it would be of no use. ” 

He tried to laugh, but it was the saddest sound — a 
laugh without any music in it. 

“You are a philosopher,” he replied. 

“What time is it. Lord Carsdale?” asked Alice. 

He had resolutely refrained from looking at his watch 
himself, but when she asked the question he was com- 
pelled to do so. To his horror it was long after nine ; he 
dare not tell her. 

“ I shall see better when we come to Lady well,” he said, 
evasively ; “ it is dark now. ” 

More and more slowly; the last vestige of light had 


30 


DECIDING HER FATE. 


died from the skies, the last sound of laborers going home 
had died away. 

could walk more quickly than this, Lord Carsdale!'’ 
cried Alice, in a sudden passion of grief. 

^'Patience,” he said, gently; “there is the spire of 
Ladywell church. Do not tremble, Alice ; you will be in 
time. We must not drive through the streets — the sound 
would attract so much attention ; we will walk.” 

And, when they reached the entrance of the town, he 
stopped the carriage, paid the driver amply, and sent him 
back to Fernbay; then they walked quickly up the street 
together. 


CHAPTER IV. 

DECIDING HER FATE. 

Doctor Wallis had chosen for his habitation a tall, 
square house, standing just at the entrance of Ladywell. 
It was all gloom and darkness as the two stood before it 
There was not the faintest glimmer of light either from 
window or door ; it was all dark and silent As they stood 
there, from the church tower near them the hour of eleven 
rang out — slow, solemn strokes, each one a death-knell to 
Alice. 

“Eleven,” she said, in a low voice. “ Is it really eleven 
o’clock, Lord Carsdale?” 

“lam afraid so. I am veiy^ sorry; I have never been 
so sorry for anything before.” 

“They are all gone to bed there,” she said; “and if I 


DECIDING HER FATE. 


31 


ring it will be the doctor himself who comes ; he will not 
let me enter that house again ; he will send me home and 
tell my father; my father will kill me. I can see it all.” 

She sank kneeling on the pavement, her face buried in 
her hands, weeping as he had never heard any one weep 
before. 

“Alice, I ‘Cannot hear that; I am so sorry. How 
foolish I w’as to persuade you to do this; but, indeed, I 
only thought of giving you pleasure. Can you ever for- 
give me ?” 

She looked up at him with weeping eyes, all wet with 
tears. 

“I have nothing to forgive,” she replied. “They will 
kill me for it ; but I would rather have had it and die than 
have lived without it ; and knowing you ” 

“But, Alice, they cannot kill you; you have done no 
wrong. ” 

“No,” she sobbed; “you do not understand. My 
father is very particular, and there are three of us girls ; he 
always says that his is a dangerous profession, one that 
obliges him to be very careful with his daughters, more 
careful than other people. My sister, Rosa, is very pretty 
and a great flirt. He says to us sometimes : ^Mind I in 
spite of all I do, you may one of you go wrong ; but you 
shall never live wrong. ’ ” 

“You have not gone wrong, Alice.” 

“No,” she replied; “but he will hardly believe me. 
Of the two, believe me. Lord Carsdrle, I 'had far rather 
that he did kill me. ” 

A sudden feeling of despair came over her ; she wrung 
her hands with passionate tears. 

“What shall I do?” she cried. “Oh, Heaven! what 
shall I do? You cannot realize it. Lord Carsdale, you 


32 


DECIDING HER FATE. 


cannot understand it. My uncle will not, perhaps, trouble 
himself as to whether I am innocent or guilty; he will 
simply close his door in my face, scorn me, and forbid me 
to intrude on him again. My father, even if he does no 
worse, will do the same. lam only seventeen, and I shall 
be homeless — I shall be alone in the world.” 

She bowed her head until it touched the cold stones. 
He stood watching her as she stifled her passionate cries. 
Poor children ! it was a hard price for a day’s pleasure. 
Lord Carsdale spoke at last. 

“Alice,” he said, “do you really believe that all will 
happen as you say — that you will be thrown alone and 
desolate on the world ?” 

“I am as sure of it,” she replied, “as though it had 
already happened.” 

“Then,” he said, slowly, “there is but one way out of 
the difficulty. I am a gentleman ; I cannot leave you in 
distress brought on by myself. I cannot leave you to 
expiate my imprudences. If it is indeed as you say, there 
is but one way out of the difficulty — I must marry you.” 

She was so surprised that she raised her eyes to look at 
him. 

“ Marry me !” she repeated, naiv ily. “Why that would 
make matters a thousand times worse. ” 

He looked down at her in a superb fashion of his own. 

“ No ; that would never be, Alice — it couldn’t be. The 
mfen of my race are not accustomed to draw ladies into 
difficulties and leave them there. It seems to me, Alice,” 
he continued, raising his head with a proud gesture that 
was at once touching and amusing, “it seems to me that 
I hold your life, as it were, in my hands. To speak 
plainly — pray do not misunderstand me — you are in my 
power. There is but one thing a gentleman can do.” 


DECIDING HER FATE, 


33 

“But,” said she, “how could it be — how could you 
marry me ?” 

* ‘ I will find the way and means, ” he replied. ‘ ‘ Do not 
be afraid — trust to me.” 

It was the second time he had used these words to her. 
If the result of the second trusting^ was as fatal as the first, 
it would be woe to Alice. 

“It seems so very dreadful to me,” sobbed Alice. 

“Do you see any other way out of it?” he asked, 
gravely. “I must confess that I do not. I have been 
thinking of it for the last hour.” 

“ No,” sobbed Alice. “ I am afraid. Lord Carsdale. I 
think it is the most terrible thing that ever happened to 
any one in this world.” 

“Are you sorry that you came?” he asked, briefly. 

“No,” she replied, looking up at him with wet eyes. 

‘ ‘ I will never say that. ” 

He loved her for her stanch fidelity. 

She would not, indeed she could not, regret the only 
gleam of happiness she had ever known. 

“I am not proud,” said the young lordling; “and as 
for boasting, a gentleman never does it ; but I come of a 
race that has ever held the fair name and honor of a 
woman in highest reverence. I should think myself 
branded as a coward, and no man, if I could go away and 
leave ybu to pay the penalty of my faults. I could not do 
it, Alice.” 

There was something grand and noble about him. He 
had acted with great recklessness, but there was something 
almost heroic in his way of redeeming his error ; his hand- 
some young face was pale with emotion under the light of 
the stars. 

“Do not cry so bitterly,” he said, his honest, kindly 


34 


DECIDING HER FATE. 


young heart aching at the sight of her tears; **do not ciy, 
Alice, but listen to me; it is the only way out of the 
difficulty. Of course,” he continued, in a more dignified 
tone, “if you do not like me, or have any objection of 
that kind, I must do whatever I can for you. ” 

“Oh, no,” cried Alice, naively; “I can have no objec- 
tion — it would be very nice; the only thing is, how can 
it be?” 

“Leave that to me ; the Carsdales ride over difficulties — 
they do not lie down before them. Indeed, I think a diffi- 
culty enhances the value of what one wishes to obtain. I 
heard my father say once, Alice — and it was the proudest 
boast he ever made — that no Carsdale had ever betrayed a 
woman. I will not be the first, dear, to brand myself wdth 
the name of traitor.” 

“You are not a traitor,” she replied, thinking to herself 
that in his heroism he looked like a young god, such as 
the Greeks worshiped. 

“ I should be a traitor and coward both if I left you in 
this dilemma, Alice. I cannot and will not; but, my 
dear, I must not spend my time in making fine speeches 
to you about my love and my honor. jBy my own thought- 
less act I have placed you in a false position, Alice. Let 
me make the only atonement possible — let me make you 
my wife ?” 

Her heart thrilled with the words ; a sudden sense of 
keen, passionate delight seized her. His wife 1 Why she 
would most gladly have been his slave. His wife! It 
seemed to her a greater dignity, a higher honor, than to 
be crowned queen of the British Isles. 

It was such a strange, quaint, picturesque scene, not 
without a certain beauty of its own. The tall, dark trees 


DECIDING HER FATE, 


35 


standing round like grim sentinels, the shadow of night 
infolding all around, the pale light of the stars falling on 
the darkened house — the two figures, the handsome young 
lordling and the beautiful, pale, terrified girl. Suddenly 
he bent down and took her hands in his. He little knew 
or guessed the keen rapture that seemed almost to stop her 
heart from beating — her white, downcast face betrayed 
none of it 

“Do you trust me, Alice?” he asked. 

It was new to him, this wooing of women; he had 
never essayed it before, and a new sense of his own dignity 
and importance as a man came over him. 

“Yes,” she replied, “certainly I do, I trust you as I 
trust Heaven.” 

“That is quite right You know if I wished to deceive 
you it would be very easy to do so. I should profess the 
most violent love for you, and pretend that I could not 
live without you — all the kind of high-flown romance that 
lovers in books talk ; but I say none of those things — I 
make no vows, no protestations. I could live without 
you, and though I like you very much indeed, I do not 
pretend to have any passionate raptures of love. I am an 
Englishman, straightforward, and one who speaks to the 
point. I have carelessly placed you in such a position 
that there is only one way out of it. I cannot leave you 
exposed to angry words and ill-usage — to be homeless, 
penniless. Great Heaven 1 I should be a monster if I 
thought of such a thing. I offer you the only repara- 
tion in my power — marriage. Will you accept it, Alice? 
Think for a few minutes before you answer me ; all your 
future and mine depend on the word you speak.” 

As he bent over her, waiting her reply, the clock tolled 
out the hour of twelve — midnight; and Alice he^rd it 


DECIDING HER FATE, 


36 

\?ith a fainting heart. They had spent one whole hour 
before the doctor’s closed-up house. 

“Your answer, Alice?” he whispered. 

What could she answer? She gave one despairing 
thought all round her life, as it were, and she saw no 
hope. After being absent for a day and a night, without 
permission, she knew that the doctor would never permit 
her to cross his sacred threshold again. She knew that her 
parents would be annoyed with her for losing the doctor’s 
favor — they had hoped such great things from it that they 
would never speak to her again ; there was no help for it, 
no other way out of the difficulty. Nothing else to be done 
but to obey his wish. She looked up to the pale, golden 
stars, a hasty, passionate glance, as though praying from 
the high Heaven help to think clearly. If in that one 
moment she could have seen clearly all that she had to 
suffer, beautiful Alice Derwent would have laid her head 
on the ground and prayed God in his mercy to let her die. 
But she was young and hopeful ; it seemed to her that a 
great hero wooed her. She looked up at him wistfully 
with faith and love. 

“My answer is ‘yes,’ Lord Carsdale,” she said, solemnly. 

He looked pleased. 

“lam glad you have trusted me, Alice,” he said. “I 
had begun to imagine that you did not.” 

“ I trust you, all in all,” she answered. 

Then Lord Carsdale said : 

“We have no time to lose, Alice. You must follow 
my directions implicitly. While you have been deciding 
your fate I have been thinking it all over. ” 


SAVING A WOMANS S HONOR, 


37 


CHAPTER V. 

SAVING A woman’s HONOR. 

** We must go straight to London ; that is the only place 
where we can be married. They make such a fuss about 
marriages in these country places ; in London they take 
things more quietly. A few thousand marriages there, 
more or less, makes no difference. Alice, can you walk 
to Laylsden Junction? It is only four miles from here; 
there we can take the express to London. I am sorry that 
you should be so tired and fatigued ; there is no way of 
getting a carriage for you. ” 

“I can walk,” she replied, quickly. 

“Then say good-by to the doctor’s house; it will be a 
long time before you see it again,” said Lord Carsdale. 

Alice looked up at it with tearful eyes. 

“I owe him so much,” she murmured; “but he was 
always so cross, and so severe. ” 

“ No one shall ever be cross to you again, my beautiful 
Alice,” said the young lord. “You have drank the lees 
of life, now you shall taste its wine.” 

In her strange after-life, with its joys, its passions, its 
pains, she never lost the memory of that walk. The night 
was so still, so sweet, so fragrant; there was no sound, 
save the murmur of the wind as it lightly stirred the great, 
swaying boughs, save their own footsteps on the soft;’ 
springing turf, save their own voices, low and musical; 
the lovely starlight was so dim and fragrant ; the hedges 
were all one pink mass of white roses, w'ith great sprays 


38 


SAVIATG A WOMANS S HONOR. 


of woodbine perfuming the sweet, silent night ; the fire of 
the scarlet poppies was hidden in the grass, the dew fell 
soft and sweet, the birds were all asleep; and the two, who 
were but children after all, though he was brave of heart, 
walked through the long line of trees to the station. They 
reached it at last. With the delicacy and consideration of 
a true cavalier, he had talked to her of everything and 
anything except themselves and the future before them. 
He said nothing of love or marriage ; he talked to, her of 
the books he had read, and was delighted to find that 
Alice was a wonderful scholar. 

“You can read Goethe and Schiller in the original 
he said. “Then, frankly speaking, I envy you. I wish I 
had spent half the time in studying German that I have 
spent over Greek. We must speak German, Alice. Quote 
some of Goethe’s lines to me.” 

She complied; then they discussed French literature, 
and, Lbrd Carsdale complimented Alice on her accent. 

“The truth is,” he said, “you speak German and 
French better than English.” 

Alice looked up in alarm. 

“Do I? I am so sorry.” 

“You have no need to be sorry,” he answered, with 
bland patronage. “You will soon learn; you are very 
quick. ” 

It was very pleasant to him to have this young girl 
depending on him — so elated if he praised her, so de- 
pressed if he hinted at a fault or an imperfection. Talk 
of playing a piano — that is nothing to the* wonder of 
playing on the strings of a human heart, as he played 
upon hers. 

They reached the station with time to spare — the express 
left there at two in the morning. . , . 



SAVING A WOMANS S HONOR. 


39 

must be cautious,” said Lord Carsdale; “though I 
do not think that any one here knows me.” 

He sent a porter to purchase the tickets, and in a few 
minutes they were going as fast as steam could take them 
to London. 

“ What should we have done,” asked Alice, “if we had 
been late for this train ?” 

He laughed with his superb ease. 

“ We should have found our way out of all difficulties,” 
he said; “the secret of success is a strong will and deter- 
mination.” 

How he remembered those words in after years, when 
strong will could not befriend him and determination was 
of no use. 

“Alice,” he said, gently, “close your eyes and try to 
sleep. ’ 

“ To sleep 1 She could have laughed at the words. To 
sleep, with all this wonder stirring in her heart — sleep, on 
the very threshold of fate 1 It was not possible ; yet the 
Mea of disobeying him never occurred to her mind. She 
closed her eyes, and he believed she slept. 

She had read wonderful old German legends, she had 
read of miracles; but nothing that she could remember 
was half so strange to her as her own story. Only yester- 
day she had been thinking of her future, and she had 
decided that her life would have to be one of very hard 
work and very little pleasure ; now, how changed all was. 
She was dazed and bewildered, as one who, after being 
long in utter darkness, comes suddenly into brilliant light 
To do her justice, just then she did not remember his 
worldly rank — she never thought of it ; she was lost in 
wonder that she should ever be his wife! She never said 
to herself that she should be Lady Carsdale ; but, looking 


40 


SAVING A WOMAN^S HONOR, 


at him, she wondered if he would ever love her as she 
loved him. She forgot her parents and the doctor ; to her 
their journey from Ladywell to London was like going 
from one world to another. 

Believing she slept, Lord Carsdale allowed himself to do 
what he had not done before — that is, think ; not that any 
amount of thought could change his fixed purpose. There 
is a state of mind that the French call exaltee — it expressed 
his; he was exalted far above all common sense, all pru- 
dence. He said to himself that the honor of a woman 
was concerned, and when such was the case, a man must 
think of nothing else save that woman. He forgot, in 
these heroic notions, all that he owed to his parents, his 
rank, and position ; he did not stop to think how much 
he owed society or home; he imagined himself a hero 
going to do a great action. 

There are men,” he thought to himself, ‘‘who would 
have flung away such a heart as this, who would have gone 
off, only too pleased to free themselves from blame, with- 
out caring what the woman they had led into the error 
had to suffer for it ; men who would have boasted of the 
conquest, and numbered it among the light flirtations of 
a light life.” 

Not so a Carsdale — they were real gentlemen, all of 
them. To tell the truth of our hero, he thought more of 
himself than he did of Alice ; he was not in love with her, 
but he was certainly in love with his own actions, in love 
with his own magnificent sense of honor, with his own 
nobility of character. He would not listen to the sug-- 
gestions of prudence or common sense ; if any idea ad- 
verse to his present plans occurred to him, he thrust it 
away angrily. 

“I am doing my duty,” he said, haughtily; “I am 


SAVING A WOMANS S HONOR. ' 


41 


saving a woman's honor; I am sacrificing my future to 
save a girl's fair name." 

It was the way he chose to look at it, and there was no 
one to show him the other side of the picture, or place 
the matter fairly and justly before him. 

Morning was dawning when they reached London. 

“We will go direct to the Empress," he said; “that 
IS one of the best hotels in London. You will be very 
comfortable there, Alice. I shall get a special license the 
first thing in the morning, and we shall be married by 
noon. " 

The next scene was the large hotel. Alice was amazed 
at its vast grandeur; she was even more amazed at the 
nonchalance and dignified ease of Lord Carsdale — he did 
not stand the least in awe of those imposing-looking 
waiters, “dressed," thought Alice, in her simple fashion, 
“like gentlemen." He was not awed by the smart-looking 
chambermaid ; but then he was a hero, and that accounted 
for everything, said Alice to herself. 

Lord Carsdale ordered all that she required ; then, with 
a warm pressure of the hand and a low bow, he bade her 
adieu for a time. 

“Are you not going to remain here ?’’ she asked. 

“No," he replied; “it will be better not. I shall be 
with you by half-past ten in the morning." 

She was so completely tired out that she fell into a deep 
sleep, and did not waken until the sun poured, warm and 
bright, into her room ; then she woke to the sudden recol- 
lection that this was her wedding-day. 

It was a very pale, beautiful face reflected in the mirror ; 
there were strange, half-sad depths in the blue eyes, 
strangely sweet, half-sad smiles on the beautiful lips. Lord 
Carsdale might have searched England over before he 


42 


SAVING A WOMANS S HONOR. 

# 

could have found a fairer bride. Perhaps he thought so 
when he saw her, for a tender smile made his face hand- 
somer than ever when he greeted her. 

“I have the license,” he said. “We have no time to 
lose ; there can be no marriages after twelve at noon. ” 

“Is it — true?” she said, looking up at him with sweet, 
wondering eyes. 

‘ ‘ Is what true, Alice ? I do not understand. ” 

“Is it true that we are to b,e married — ^you and I? Is 
it really true ?” 

“This looks strangely like it,” he replied, smiling, as 
he showed her the license. “Victoria, greeting — ” he 
said; “who shall say nay? I am sorry, Alice,” he con- 
tinued, ‘ ‘ that we have not time to get you a pretty dress 
to be married in. We must have the wedding-dress after 
the wedding. See, there is one thing that I did not 
forget. ” 

He showed her a small brown morocco case ; she had 
not the least idea what it contained. 

“Open it,” said Lord Carsdale. 

She did so, and there saw a ring of plain, thick gold. 

“A wedding-ring!” cried Alice. 

“Certainly,” he replied. “You could not be married 
without a ring, could you ?” 

She was looking at it with wonder and amaze, with 
awe, not unmixed with fear. As she looked, the tears 
filled her eyes. 

“I cannot believe that is for me,” she said ; “ not really 
for me !” 

“No one else will ever wear it, Alice,” he replied, 
touched with her emotion. 

it was very pleasant to him, this power of playing on 
the strings of a human heart, this power of creating tears 


43 


A BRIDE'S LETTERS. 

• 

or smiles by a word, this sense of protection, this knowl- 
edge that another depended on him. While Alice replaced 
the ring in the case, it was well for her that she did not 
know what the weight of that wedding-ring would be. 

Then through all her life she retained a faint, dazed 
dream of a large, dim, cold, stone church, with dingy 
pillars, and an elderly clergyman, with a thin, worn face, 
and white hair. Of the marriage service she remembered 
but little ; the sweet, solemn words that bound her for life, 
the terrible vow that, no matter what she suffered, must 
never be broken — all seemed to her like the faint, sweet 
music of a dream. She did not seem to recover her full 
consciousness until they had left the church; and Lord 
Carsdale, looking with kindly pity at the pale, beautiful 
face, said, half-proudly : 

“You do not regret your trust in me, Alice, my wife? 
And now that you are my wife, I have much to say. We 
will not return to the Empress ; we will go to the London 
Bridge Hotel. I will tell you why when we are there.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

A bride’s letters. 

The next scene was in a pretty, cozy sitting-room in the 
London Bridge Hotel, one window of which looked over 
the busiest traffic that the world knows. The young hus- 
band and wife sat together. They had finished breakfast, 
and, in honor of his wedding-day, the handsome young 
lordling had ordered a bottle of champagne. 


44 


A BRIBERS LETTERS, 


“That will make it a proper champagne breakfast, 
Alice,” he said. “No one can be properly married with- 
out a champagne breakfast.” 

She looked up at him. 

“I have heard of champagne,” she said, simply, “but I 
have never either seen or tasted it.” 

Her expression of intense wonder amused him — that 
any one should have lived to her age without tasting the 
king of wines. 

Perhaps it was the wine that made him so brave. He 
drew his chair to the table. 

“Now, Alice,” he said, “we will defy the whole world. 
I want you to write some letters ; you must write, word for 
word, just what I dictate. Before you begin, I have some- 
thing to say to you.” 

She looked up at him reverently, as though she were 
listening to an angel or an oracle. 

“You know, Alice,” he began, “that I am father’s only 
son and heir. I am now Lord Vivian Carsdale; eventually 
I shall be — though Heaven grant the time be distant — I 
shall be Earl of Waldrove. You understand, of course, 
that my father and mother have grand views for me — they 
expect.. me to marry well ; by that, I mean some one in 
their own rank of life.” 

“I am so sorry,” she began, with a face full of con- 
trition. 

He laughed. 

“There is nothing to be sorry for, my dear Alice; 
I have vindicated myself and saved you ; there is no cause 
for regret. I want to explain to you. My parents expect 
great things from me. If I did as I liked, I should go at 
once and say to my father : * See, father, through my care- 
lessness I placed this young lady in a false position, and. 


A BRIBERS LETTERS. 


45 


to save her from the consequences of it, I have married 
her; try to love her, for she is my wife.’ That is what I 
should like to do, you understand ; but I am afraid, and I 
will tell you why. You need not tremble; it is nothing, 
as you will find if you listen. My father’s hopes are fixed 
on me, and I hesitate about letting him know that those 
hopes are all in vain.” 

<*But why?” she said, gently; “why, if you knew this, 
have you married me ?” 

It was touching and amusing to see the young lordling’s 
chivalry. 

“Why? Because your fair name is more to me than all 
the world besides ; nothing can be of any value compared 
to this. Listen, Alice. Always remember that it is of no 
use to argue about the inevitable ; it is too late to consider 
now whether we have done a wise thing or not ; we 
are married, therefore all questions as to the prudence of 
our marriage are useless.” 

The handsome face, with its youthful fervor, wore an 
expression of importance that was amusing. 

“I have thought this well over, Alice; we must keep 
our marriage quite secret from my father, for some time at 
least. He is not very strong, many of the Carsdales die 
young, and not for all the world could I bear to think that 
any action of mine made my father suffer — injured his 
health, or anything of the kind — that would never do.” 

She agreed that it would never do. 

“We can keep our secret very well; it must be kept. 
Then my mother, she is strong and healthy enough ; but 
she is very proud, and she might just at first feel vexed. 
So, for many reasons, it will be better kept from them. 
Do you agree with me ?” 


46 


A BRIBERS LETTERS. 


“Yes,” she replied, faintly, with a quiver of pain on 
her face. 

She quite agreed with him. He looked very much 
relieved. 

“ I should do just as you liked over it,” he said. “ If 
you had wished it, I would have taken you home to- 
morrow ; but I am glad you agree with me. I want you 
now to give me your promise, Alice — your solemn prom- 
ise; think the words over — that you will never tell to any 
creature living that you are the wife of Lord Carsdale. 
Will you promise?” 

She was so pleased to be able to do anything for 
him that she forgot all the consequences that might 
ensue. 

“I promise you,” she said, “most solemnly that I will 
never reveal our marriage to any one. I will keep my 
promise truly, as I love you. ” 

He bent down and kissed her face lightly, wondering 
why, as he did so, a great wave of color rose even to her 
forehead. That first light kiss of his to her was the sign 
and seal of their marriage ; it was as sacred as a religious 
ceremony. 

“This is what I have been thinking, Alice; I dislike all 
false names — there is something mean, dishonorable about 
them. My name is Vivian Nelson Carsdale. I propose 
that you call yourself Mrs. Nelson ; the name it is not an 
uncommon one, and it will be true — you are Mrs. Nelson. 
Are you willing, Alice?” 

She looked into his face with entire devotion, so earnest, 
so sincere, that it touched him. 

“I would do anything you wished, anything that you 
asked me. I should be willing to give my life for you.” 

Nothing flatters and pleases a young man like the pro- 


A BRIBERS LETTERS. 


47 


fession of great devotion to himself. An older man sus- 
pects its sincerity. .To the young one it is the sweetest 
incense that can be offered. 

‘"Thank you, Alice,” he said. “I know it is a sac- 
rifice, but you make it so cheerfully that I am pleased I 
asked it.” 

He took her by the hand and led her up to the tall 
mirror. 

“Now, Alice,” he said, laughingly, “let me introduce 
you to a very important person — one who will in time be 
even more important — Lady Alice Carsdale; and a very 
lovely lady she is, is she not ?” 

The beautiful face was radiant in its crimson flush. 

“A lovely lady, and a good one,” he continued, “for 
she is willing to sacrifice her grandeur to her husband’s 
wish.” 

“It is no sacrifice,” said Alice; “it is a great pleasure 
to please and obey you. ” 

“There speaks the model wife,” said the young hus- 
band, proudly. “Then, Alice, we understand each other; 
you are quite willing for a time to forego all the — what 
shall I say? — privileges of having married an earl’s son, 
and are willing to be known as Mrs. Nelson — to live 
as my most honored wife ?” 

“Yes,” replied Alice. 

And indeed it would have been difficult for him to have 
suggested anything that she would have been unwilling for. 

“Now, little wife, we have these letters to write. Sit 
down and I will dictate them. The first is to the famous 
Doctor Wallis, of Lady well. ” 

And, following his dictation, Alice y^rote as follows : 

“My Dear Uncle: — I am afraid you ^^ill be very angry with 
me for having left your house as I did. I may as well tell you briefly 


48 


A BRIDE'S LETTERS. 


that I was married this morning ; and my husband desires me to say 
that he takes the whole blame^ — if there be any — of my marriage on 
himself. I am going abroad; we shall be in Paris to-morrow. If 
you answer my letter, please address ‘ Mrs. Nelson, Paste Restante^ 
Paris.’ From your affectionate niece, 

“Alice Nelson.” 

She looked up from the paper with sudden delight flash- 
ing in her face. 

“Paris!” she repeated. “Oh, Lord Vivian, are we 
really going to Paris ?” 

“ I hope so,” he replied. “ Now for your second letter; 
it will be longer than the first. Write : 

“ ‘ My Dear Parents : — You will be surprised to hear that I am 
married. I have to ask your forgiveness for having married without 
your permission. I am sure that you will like my husband, and he 
promises to assist you. We are going to Paris for a short time, then 
we shall come home and pay you a visit. Please do not be angry 
with me, for I am very happy. I must not forget to say that I am 
afraid my uncle will be very cross, as I left Ladywell without ‘•elling 
him. My husband wishes me to say that he takes all the blame — if 
there be any — of this hasty marriage on himself, and that when he 
sees you he will explain. I shall send you a parcel from Paris. 

“ * I am ever your obedient daughter, 

“‘Alice Nelson.’” 

“ I do not think,” said Alice, doubtfully, “that I ought 
to sign myself ‘obedient daughter.' I have not been very 
obedient, I fear.” 

“You did not disobey in getting married,” said her 
husband, “ for they had never forbidden it.” 

“My uncle would call that ‘begging the question,"' 
said Alice. 

Then Lord Carsdale dashed Vlf a hasty note to his 
parents, telling them that he should in all probability 
be absent for some weeks, as he was going with a friend 
through France to Switzerland. He knew that they would 


A BRIBERS LETTERS. 


.49 


think little of that; it was no unusual thing for him 
to absent himself for a few weeks — they thought nothing 
of it. 

*‘Now,” he said, with a sigh of unutterable relief — 
“now we are free, and all is safe. I am quite certain 
that no one will ever suspect our secret. Your uncle 
never knew that we saw each other ; he will never dream 
that Mr. Nelson and Lord Carsdale are the same people. 
All will go well, Alice, I prophesy, and in a year's time, 
when I have broken it to them quite gradually, I shall be 
able to take you home. They will be quite surprised to 
see such a lovely Lady Carsdale. We may forget our diffi- 
culties now, and think of Paris. You shall go through 
France to Switzerland; you will enjoy that, Alice." 

They were like children, with a vast, untried world 
before them. She thought him the greatest hero that the 
world had ever seen, the grandest of men — she could im- 
agine no one more noble ; and he had something of the 
same idea himself — he really did think that he had acquit- 
ted himself like a king. So they went off into a fairy- 
land of their own. 

.Lord Carsdale had spoken the truth when he said 
that he had no great rapture of love for his wife. He did 
not profess to have fallen passionately in love with her, 
although he had liked and admired her very much ; but 
Alice worshiped him. It was all wonderful to her, as 
though she hi^d lived in the olden days, when people wor- 
shiped gods and goddesses, and a young god had stepped 
from his high estate to marry her. 

The letters created great excitement — not in the courtly 
halls of Roseneath; there it was looked upon rather 
as a matter of course, if the young heir chose to go 
abroad for a few weeks. It was quite right, no one 


50 A BRIBERS LETTERS, 

objected to it — although the earl, his father, who loved 
him exceedingly, wondered that he had not cared to 
run down home first; and his lady mother hoped that 
Vivian was careful in his choice of friends — nothing 
stamped a man so soon as that. 

At Rudeswell, where John Derwent and his wife lived, 
the sensation was great. 

“Married!” cried the dancing-master, looking at his 
wife — “married 1 Our little Alice I Why, it is impossible, 
Fanny !” 

Mrs. Derwent sought refuge in tears. 

“I tell you how it is, John,” she replied; “the girl is 
very pretty — I never saw a lovelier face. Rely upon it, 
she has met with some great gentleman, who has married 
her for the sake of her face.” 

‘•‘You are always so romantic, Fanny.” 

“Nay, John, I was romantic once, and I have paid 
dearly enough for my romance,” she replied. 

“I only hope to Heaven she is married,” said John 
Derwent, anxiously. 

“John!” cried his wife, “remember you are speaking 
of my daughter !” 

“You are all daughters of Eve,” said the angry ^ther. 

While Doctor Wallis wrote a letter, saying merely these 
few words : 

“I am not surprised — I need not have expected any- 
thing better from a dancing-master’s daughter. I never 
wish to see you again. ” 



A SHOCKED HUSBAND. 


51 


CHAPTER VII. 

‘ A SHOCKED HUSBAND. 

A beautiful, light, cheerful room, overlooking the most 
lively and picturesque part of Paris — the garden of Tuile- 
ries — a room such as Alice had never seen; all flowers, 
lace, silks, and gilding. The first moment she entered it 
her husband smiled to himself, because she looked at the 
white carpet, with its crimson roses, as though she were 
afraid to tread upon it. 

Had there been any romance about their marriage, this 
would have been the very room for a bride. Roses lay on 
the floor and seemed to climb the walls — roses were painted 
on the door panels, and wherever it was possible for roses 
to be. 

She turned those wondering eyes of hers to her husband. 

“What a beautiful room, Vivian,” she said, in accents 
of awe. 

“Beautiful,” he repeated, laughingly. “Nay, Alice, 
no room can be beautiful that is not artistic; and this 
room certainly is not.” 

“Not artistic? Why, Vivian, look at the flowers,” she 
cried. 

“Flowers do not make art,” he said, “although they 
make beauty. Wait until you see th: rooms at Roseneath 
Abbey, Alice — they are beautiful.” 

“If they are better than this,” she said, despondently, 
“I do not know what I shall do in them.” 

Looking at her it seemed to him, for the first time, how 
utterly out of place that ^informed, untrained girl would 


52 


A SHOCKED HUSBAND. 


be in the stately, splendid saloons of Roseneath Abbey. 
Alice was filled with awe; she seemed to be walking on 
velvet and flowers. If she touched a bell, low-voiced, 
noiseless servants vied with each other in answering it and 
attending to her. She ate the daintiest food from services 
of costly plate and rare china — tasted rare wines in glasses 
that were marvels of beauty in themselves — it was like new 
life to her. She could neither realize nor understand it— 
the dancing-master’s daughter was in a new sphere. At 
first she was very uncomfortable iii^it. She was inclined 
to call solemn-looking waiters “sir,” to rise when he 
addressed her, to be unnecessarily profuse in her thanks 
for any little service rendered. At first all this amused her 
young husband — it was quite new to him, and he enjoyed 
it ; the time had to come when it would irritate and annoy 
him. 

The first evening they spent together there, at the Hotel 
du Roi, was one she never forgot. Lord Carsdale had 
turned to her suddenly. 

“I do not like your name, Alice,” he said; “I do not 
like the name of Alice. ” 

“ I wish that I could change it, then,” she said, “as I 
have done the name of Derwent. But why don’t you like 
it, Vivian.?” 

He kissed her carelessly, not with the impassioned love 
and tenderness of a young husband. 

“You must not be hurt if I correct your little eccen- 
tricities of speech either, little wife. I prefer hearing you 
say, ‘Why do you not like it?’ to ‘Why doniyoviV Dont 
is a most inelegant word, to my mind. You ask me why 
I do not like the name of Alice. Let me think. It is a 
favorite name in fiction; Bulwer Lytton had a most 
charming Alice; Thackaray has no Alice. I think it 


A SHOCKED HUSBAND. 


53 


rather a sentimental kind of name; it sounds as though 
the girl bearing it came from the country, and was very 
simple.” 

She raised her beautiful head after a spirited fashion all 
her own. 

“I do not agree with you. The queen did not think 
so; she named her daughter Alice. I have seen the 
Princees Alice, and I do not think there is a more noble 
lady in any land than she.” 

“Where did you sep her?” he asked, forgetting his argu- 
* ment for a few minutes. 

“I saw her in Germany with her husband, and I felt 
quite proud that my name was Alice. ” . 

Then her whole manner changed and became subdued. 

“Still, if you do not like it, the sound of it will never 
be pleasant to me again.” 

The beautiful blue eyes grew dim with tears ; he did not 
see them. 

“Your father or mother gave you the name of Alice,” 
he continued; “now I will give you one much prettier, 
and you will like it better, because it is of my choosing. 
1 should like to call you Ailie.” 

She repeated the word after him — spoken by his lips it 
had a certain music no other lips could give it. 

“You will make me very happy,” she said, in her sim- 
ple, innocent, worshiping way. 

“Ailie,” he said over again to himself; “yes, I like that 
name — it sounds as though you belonged to me — ‘Ailie 
Carsdale.’ I am glad that is settled; I did not like Alice 
at all, yet the name suits you. Alice in a poem always 
has those lovely blue eyes and shining wealth of fair hair. ” 

Then he talked of other things; but while she lived 
Alice never cared again for her own name. 


54 


A SHOCKED HUSBAND. 


The first day was to her one rapture of wonder. That 
she should be in sunny Paris — that all those marvelous 
shops should be open to her — that she could go where she 
would, buy what she liked — that a beautifully-appointed 
carriage was always at her service, were marvels to her. 
With his characteristic generosity. Lord Vivian had given 
her a little roll of bank notes. 

** You have never enjoyed the luxury of a day's shop- 
ping, Ailie, have you he asked. 

“Never,” she replied. 

One great charm in Ailie was her frank, fearless fashion 
of always speaking the exact truth. 

“I have only spent one sovereign in a shop in all my 
life, ” she said. 

“It is incredible; and yet they say ladies are so fond of 
shopping. ” 

“Ladies who have plenty of money — I have never had 
any,” she replied. “How could I enjoy shopping.?” 

“Well, you want many things — I do not even know 
the names of the little elegancies you require. My sisters 
are, I think, the best dressed girls in England — I should 
like you to dress like them — plain, simple elegance — 
everything good, nothing fine. It is very easy.” 

“For your sisters, Vivian; they are ladies — they have 
always been ladies.” 

“You are a lady,” he said, hastily. “Do not speak in 
that fashion, Ailie. My sisters are simple, well-bred girls, 
nothing out of the common,” 

She smiled sadly. 

“You and I have lived in such different worlds,” she 
said; “simple, well-bred elegance belongs to yours, not 
mine.” 

“Well, we belong to the same Mwld now, Ailie ; and a 


A SHOCKED HUSBAND. 


55 

very pleasant one it is, my dear. You hurt me when you 
speak as though you had not always been a lady. ” 

“But, Vivian,” she persisted, “it is true. I am sorry 
you do not like to hear it, but I must repeat that it is true. 
You will find out that I have not the manner or fashion of 
the ladies of your class; but I am willing to learn. I 
shall remember everything you tell me, and when I have 
a chance of seeing ladies — really well-bred, elegant, charm- 
ing women — I shall imitate them.” 

“Nay,” he cried, brusquely, “for Heaven’s sake do not 
do that. Of all things in the world, one woman carica- 
turing another is the most terrible. Forgive my hasty 
speaking, Ailie, always be natural — an assumed manner is 
almost always a vulgar one. I really thought,” he con- 
tinued, in a plaintive tone, “that all girls, except, perhaps, 
in the very lowest ranks of life, were ladies bjj. nature. ” 

“I wish they were,” .said Ailie, sadly. “I am afraid 
that ” 

But Lord Carsdale interrupted her. 

“You need not fear anything, Ailie; you will do very 
well ; you are as beautiful as an angel, or an houri, which- 
ever you like; beauties can afford to be eccentric. We 
will make one compact — if ever I see you doing anything, 
or hear you say anything not strictly proper, you will let 
me tell you of it?” 

“I shall be grateful to you,” she said, simply; “I shall 
take a pride and pleasure in trying to please you. I will 
pay the greatest attention to everything you say to me. ” 
That was very pleasant, and he felt a certain sense of 
proud satisfaction in her implicit obedience, at the same 
time he felt a jarring sense of inequality. 

Not a lady 1 Great Heaven I what would his mother, 


56 


A SHOCKED HUSBAND. 


the proudest woman in England, say? What would his 
sisters think ? 

Even while the idea pained him, he thought to himself 
how wonderfully true the girl’s nature was, how naturally 
noble, fearless, and brave. How many girls in her posi- 
tion would have given themselves airs beyond number — 
would have affected all kinds of falsehood ! She said, 
simply : 

am not a lady, because I have not had the training 
of one.'" 

He admired the fearless words, even while he deplored 
the need for speaking them. The day following he under- 
stood better what she meant. 

“We will not dine at the table d'hote” he said to her; 
“there are always so many English people in Paris. I 
.should be certain to meet some one whom I knew, then it 
would be awkward. We will order dinner in our own 
sitting-room. ” 

Ailie locked very charming in her pretty dinner-dress, 
with red roses in her fair hair, and a cluster of red roses in 
her dress. Lord Carsdale smiled when he saw them. 

‘ ‘ Roses are my favorite flowers, he said ; ‘ ‘ they are the 
queen of flowers. I should like to imitate the ancients 
and dine in a room carpeted with rose leaves." 

From that moment she loved the beautiful flowers with 
passionate love. She smiled a charming smile, and quoted 
to him some beautiful lines of Goethe’s in perfect German, 
then they sat down to dinner toget'.ier. 

“After all," thought he, as he looked at the beautiful 
face and graceful figure, the white hands and lovely arms, 
“after all I might have done much worse. She is very 
lovely, very clever, and I do not see any great " 

He stopped abruptly — a pause of, to him, unutterable 


A SHOCKED HUSBAND, 


57 


horror; she, whom he was secretly admiring, positively 
put her knife in her mouth ; the action struck him dumb. 
Ailie, looking up with a smile, was struck with the dark- 
ening expression of his face. 

“Vivian !” she cried, “is anything the matter?” 

‘ ‘ No, ” he replied, brusquely. 

‘ ‘ Has anything vexed you ?” she asked, wondering still 
more. 

“Yes,” he replied ; “you have. You should never put 
your knife in your mouth, Ailie ; it is horrible, atrocious.” 

Her face burned deepest crimson. 

‘ ‘ Did I ?” she said. “I am very sorry. I did not 
notice it.” 

“ Do take care never to do such a thing again; it has 
shocked me, ” he said, more gently. 

“I am very sorry,” she repeated; “they were not very 
particular at the school at Heisengen; they did not pay 
much attention to our manners there.” 

“ But at home,” he said ; “surely at home they did not 
allow such things ?” 

Ailie laughed. 

“At home!” she replied. “We never had what you 
would call a regular dinner.” 

He looked up in such utter wonder that she laughed 
again. 

“No regular dinner! Why, Ailie, what kind of home 
could it be ?” 

“It is just as I told you,” she answ'ered him. “Gen- 
tlemen who have lived as you have, have no idea of 
how the rest of the world lives. My father very often 
ate his dinner with his violin tucked under his arm, ready 
to go out and give lessons. My mother dined whenever 
the pupils gave her leisure; in fact, if it were not for the 


58 ^^KEEP MY NAME AND RANK A SECRETP 


fear of shocking you by a vulgar expression, I should say 
that we lived in a scramble.” 

He shuddered at the words, then said : 

‘ ' But even in a scramble, as you express it, Ailie, it is 
not needful to put ones knife in one’s mouth.” 

“No,” replied his young wife; “but you have no idea, 
Vivian, how completely the fact of having to work very 
hard for your dinner makes you indifferent over the 
etiquette of eating it.” 

And while he ate some of the finest peaches that ever 
grew in sunny France, Lord Carsdale meditated on the 
words. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“keep my name and rank a secret.” * 

They were standing together in one of the galleries of 
the Louvre, and Lord Carsdale was looking with wonder 
at his wife. 

“I believe, ” he said, with unfeigned admiration, “that 
you know the name of every painter, and of every picture 
painted. I had no idea that you were so ^lever.” 

“I am not very clever,” replied itilie; “but they 
thought so much of pictures at Heisengen.” 

Lord Carsdale laughed. 

“I begin to find out one thing, Ailie,” he said. “I 
may quote some well-known words : ^ Your virtues are the 
virtues of Heisengen, your faults are your own. ' ” 

“I have such a fashion of speaking the exact truth,” 


^^KEEP MY NAME AND RANK A SECRETP 59 

she replied; *‘and it is quite true that all the little talent 
and culture I have came from Hcisengen.” 

Without the least intention of showing him how much^ 
she knew, for Ailie Carsdale was above all such vanity, she 
went on with her catalogue and her descriptions. She 
never thought of any one else being near her ; she never 
saw any one except her husband — the whple world seemed 
to hold no one else. Lord Carsdale heard some gentle- 
men who were standing near say, in French ; 

‘‘What a clever girl; what wit; what originality; what 
ideas !” 

He was delighted that his wife should be praised. 

Unfortunately, soon afterward they were standing near a 
group of Parisian ladies, and he overheard one say to the 
other : 

“What a beautiful girl — English, I am sure, by her 
outre dress.” 

That annoyed him. 

“Ailie,” he said, afterward, “I do not understand such 
matters — are you dressed like other girls — ladies of your 
age?” 

“Yes, I think so,” she replied. 

“You do not know? You are not quite sure, then?” 

“ No ; lam not quite sure, ” she replied, frankly. ‘ ‘ I 
chose my dress myself. It looks pretty.” 

“Yes, it looks" pretty ; but is it the — the proper kind of 
thing, you know?” 

‘ ‘ I cannot tell you, Vivian. ” 

“Then,” he cried, hastily, “pray go to a fashionable 
modiste and ask. ” 

“Are you annoyed with me?” asked the young girl, 
wonderingly. 


6o ^^KEEP MY NAME AND RANK A SEC RET P 


“No; but I do not like to hear remarks about you — 
you must be like other people. ” 

“ I will try,” she said, meekly. 

And she did try. She studied his wishes with such an 
intense desire to please him, he could not be angry with 
her ; on the contrary, his liking increased. 

“I am growing quite fond of you, Ailie,” he said to 
her one day. “I shall be distressed when we leave Paris. 
I think I must go home to see your friends at Rudeswell.” 

“You will not like it,” she said, frankly. 

“Why not.?” he asked. 

“Because you do not even understand such a home. 
You have never seen one like it. It is not very pleasant 
to us who know it. You will not like it.” 

But he fancied it would be a very grand and generous 
piece of patronage to visit this humble house ; it would be 
doing his duty to its utmost extent. He fancied himself 
looked up to and revered by the w’hole of this family, 
whose patron he had resolved to be. He was hardly pleased 
that his wife should even say he would not like it. Surely 
she had no reason to believe him proud. 

“Ailie,” he said, one morning, “you will like to take 
your mother and your sisters a very nice silk dress each ; 
buy them to-day, and a few filigree ornaments. I saw 
something this morning that I thought would suit your 
father very nicely. ” 

“Did you?” she asked, her beautiful face glowing with 
delight. “What was it? How good and kind you are 
to me, Vivian !” 

“Am I? You deserve it all, Ailie. What I saw was a 
very beautiful claret jug.” 

She looked at him again with one of those, to him, 
incomprehensible laughs. 


^^KEEP MY NAME AND RANK A SECRETP 6 1 

“I do not think,” she said, quietly, ‘‘that my father 
ever tasted claret in his life. ” 

“Never in his life !” cried the astonished nobleman. 
“Why, Ailie, what a strange family yours is !” 

“Very,” was the quiet reply; “and there are many 
thousand others quite as strange.” 

‘ ‘ Then, a claret jug would not be of the least use to 
him, Ailie,” said her husband, in a tone of keen disap- 
pointment 

“No, not the least,” replied Ailie. 

He wondered why she smiled — why that quiet expres- 
sion of amusement deepened on her face. 

“Tell me,” he asked, “what does your father drink? I 
might choose something, after all, to please him. ” 

“As a rule, he drinks hot rum and water,” said Ailie. 
“My poor father! it is not often, you know, that he can 
aflford it” 

‘ ‘ I had better buy him a good liquor-stand, ” said Lord 
Carsdale. 

“If you will,” said Ailie. 

It seemed useless repeating that he would seldom be 
able to keep any spirits in it She saw plainly that, though 
his lordship had a tolerable notion of picturesque poverty 
— such poverty, for example, as he saw in the countiy, 
where pretty cottages stood in gardens of flowers — yet of 
the dull, prosaic, terrible poverty that oppresses the lower 
middle class, he had not the faintest conception ; it was all 
an unknown world to him. His dainty, fastidious notions 
were shocked at the bare idea of hot rum and water — what 
would the reality be? 

She was gifted with wisdom, this young wife, and she 
begged that her husband would abandon the idea he had 
of going home with her. When she thought of the ill- 


62 ^^KEEP MY NAME AND RANK A SECRETP 


managed, dirty, gloomy house, the best rooms in it given 
up’to the pupils, the windows that would never open with- 
out falling, the doors that would not shut, the generally 
greasy appearance of everything — her heart sank. Then 
her mother had deteriorated since her marriage \^ith the 
dancing-master. She was listless, always tired, always dis- 
contented, and went to two extremes in dress — she was 
either quite unfit to be seen, or she wore some piece of 
finery quite unsuited to her position. If John Derwent 
resisted, she told him, with a sigh, that she could not for- 
get what she had been ; his rejoinder was, it would be far 
better to remember what she was. 

Ailie thought of all these things with a sigh, while her 
husband wondered she did not show him more gratitude 
for this, his intended kindness. 

They agreed very well on the whole ; it was by no means 
an unhappy marriage. If ever any wife worshiped a hus- 
band — faults, virtues, imperfections, and all together — Ailie 
worshiped Lord Carsdale. She was too clever not to see 
his faults, not to understand his little weaknesses, not to 
see that he liked to patronize and expected gratitude for it; 
but, in spite of all, she worshiped him. She rarely said 
so; indeed, the matter of love was not often discussed 
between them ; it was an understood thing that Lord 
Carsdale had married her, net from love — there was no 
delusion in the matter ; love had nothing whatever to do 
with it — but because he had by his own carelessness 
brought her into such a position, he saw no other way to 
save her. He had admired her, he had liked her so much, 
and had felt such sympathetic pity for her, that he had 
gone out of his way to give her that one day’s pleasure; 
he had merely done it, as he would have tipped a school- 
boy, out of the royal geneiosity of his heart; but when he 


'^KEEP MY NAME AND RANK A SECRETP 63 

saw what his imprudence had entailed upon her, all. the 
chivalry of his nature was aroused, and he married her to 
save her from sorrow, and himself from reproach. He did 
not think about love at all — honor was his god, and he 
had carried honor to excess ; he was so pleased with him- 
self for it, that in the glow of happiness produced by his 
generosity, he wanted to shcwer benefits not only on his 
beautiful young wife, but upon all her friends. In their 
conversation, they never spoke of love; literature, art, 
music, the passing events of the day, the future that lay 
before them, were the subjects discussed. Ailie worshiped 
him, she would have poured out her soul like water 
beneath his feet ; but she never said to him that she loved 
him ; the time, she thought, had not arrived for that. In 
the long years to come she pictured to herself that she 
would steal to his side, put her arms round his neck and 
kiss him, while she told him that he was her love and she 
worshiped him ; but not yet — ah, me ! not yet. 

They were good comrades at present, and there was 
nothing more than good comradeship between them ; but 
in those years to come — those lovely, sunny years that 
looked so bright to her now — it would all be different; 
he would know by that time that, no matter why he had 
married her, she loved him as no other woman ever would, 
or could ; and he would seek all his happiness in her love. 
But that was a picture for the future, not the present. All 
she had to do now was try to make herself more and 
more like him, to fit herself for the position she had to 
occupy, and wait in patience. 

‘‘Some women,” she said to herself, “have waited a 
life-time — so poets say — for the love of a man, and have 
died without winning it. I may be patient for a few 
years. ” 


64 ^^KEEP MY NAME AND RANK A SECRETP 


She was so wise in her sweet humility and gentle sim- 
plicity, that he could not help being charmed with her 
character. It was well for him that matters had turned 
out as they had ; his marriage had been so recklessly im- 
prudent that he had almost sought misfortune. Their visit 
to Paris was extended ; they had gone on to Switzerland ; 
and at length, after six w'eeks’ absence. Lord Carsdale pro- 
posed they should return to Rudeswell. 

“You will not forget your promise, Ailie,” he said; 
“you will keep my name and rank a secret." 

“ I shall never forget it,” she said. 

“They will be sure to ask you all kinds of questions. 
You must tell them that your husband is a man of some 
private means, expecting daily a commission in the army. ” 

She looked up at him quickly, with a colorless face. 

“Are you really expecting a commission, Vivian?” 

“ Yes,” he replied ; “1 expect it daily.” 

He did not understand the pallor of her face, or the 
pain in her voice. 

“What shall you do when you get it?” she asked. 

‘ ‘ I cannot tell ; it is possible that I may remain iri Eng- 
land, or go abroad, if my regiment is sent there. ” 

“ Should you wish me to go with you ?” she asked ; and 
he was blind enough to imagine that the hesitation in her 
voice arose from the fact that she would not like to go. 

He laughed gayly. 

“ No, mydear Ailie; I shall make my first campaign 
alone. ” 

He wondered why she turned from him so suddenly, 
and was so quiet all the remainder of the day. 

The time came when they left fair France and came 
back to England. She had not been long absent, yet it 
seemed to Alice that a whole lile-time had passed since the 


IVELCOMING A SON-IN-LAIV. 


65 


white cliffs of Dover had disappeared from her sight. She 
was but little changed ; she was more beautifully dressed, 
more quiet, refined, and graceful in manner; yet it seemed 
to her that her whole being had changed. 

“Vivian,” she said, making a last appeal to him, “I 
wish you would not go to Rudeswell. ” 

He laughed at her fears, though afterward he knew they 
had been just. 


CHAPTER IX. 

WELCOMING A SON-IN-LAW. 

Rudeswell is one of the largest manufacturing towns in 
the middle of England ; the population is by no means a 
distinguished one — a few of what are called gentry, who 
consist principally of people who have made their fortune 
in the town and wish to enjoy it there ; the remaining part 
of the population is made up of the people who work in 
the factories, and the tradespeople who supply them with 
the necessaries of life. 

Then these factory people are ambitious; among them 
are many most intelligent men — men who read and think, 
who understand politics, who have a good idea of history ; 
men who can hold their own in argument with those who 
are supposed to be much superior; in fact, the British 
workman shone in Rudeswell. The girls in the factory 
were a class quite apart ; to begin with, they were healthy, 
hearty, generous girls, full of life and laughter, always 
ready to help each other with money and kind words. 


66 


WELCOMING A SON-IN-LAW. 


I emarkably high-spirited and independent; it was impos- 
sible to patronize them — they were quite as good as 
any one else, and they did not hesitate in telling you so. 
They were ambitious, too, and some of John Derwent’s 
best pupils lay among the factory girls of Rudeswell. 
Then some of the tradesmen’s daughters learned dancing ; 
among them he contrived to eke out a very spare in- 
come. His wife helped him to the best of her ability; 
she gave lessons to very small children. It was by no 
means a prosperous household, and John Derwent had 
something to do to find them all in bread. How many 
times he anathematized the fate that had made him a 
dancing-master, who shall tell? His soul was indeed 
weary of the fray ; he was tired of the sound of music, of 
the incessant fiddle, of the rush of feet, of the never- 
ending one, two, three; he could have danced the quad- 
rilles in his sleep; his nightmares took the shape of 
waltzes. 

He had four children — Alice, Rose, Harriet, and Frank. 
Alice, by the generosity of her uncle, was educated ; Rose, 
a nice, pretty, refined girl, had already shown great artistic 
talent, and was able to make money by her designs ; Har- 
riet was a loud-spoken, brusque, vulgar girl; and Frank 
was — what word could be more expressive } — a boy. They 
were not a very happy family; John Derwent, when 
he had a few minutes to spare from his business, spent 
it in rebelling against fate ; his wife was always complain- 
ing of her lot, and of the mistake she had made in 
her marriage. Rose was the general peace-maker. Flar- 
riet’s despair was that even the factory girls, were better 
dressed than she herself; and Frank grumbled that he 
could not have things like ‘"other fellows.” 

Not a very inviting circle for the dainty, fastidious 


WELCOMING A SONIN-LAW. 67 

heir of Roseneath to join ; and Alice’s heart sank when 
she thought of him in that house. 

“It will make him hate me, ’’she thought to herself; 
“I shall lose my chance of winning his love if he goes 
there. I know myself that, although I loved them all so 
dearly, I could not help growing tired of them, and feel- 
ing how much they jarred upon me.” 

She had used all entreaties, all prayers, all reasons, yet 
her husband only laughed. He had a pretty, picturesque 
idea of her family — of the dancing-master, weighed down 
with gratitude — of the broken-down, listless, lady-like 
mother, who would look up to him as the benefactor 
of the family— of the sisters, who would worship him, as 
Alice did, with awe and affection. Lord Carsdale had en- 
countered many things in his life, but he had certainly 
never met vulgarity in its most compact form. 

There was great anxiety in the house No. 34 Cecil street, 
Rudeswell; the neighbors could not imagine what was 
about to happen ; some suggested a ball, others a wed- 
ding. The curtains had been washed and darned, every 
available space in the front of the house that could be 
brightened had been brightened, every piece of brass shone 
resplendently ; indeed Harriet and fier mother felt rather 
inclined to moderate their exertions, lest Mr. Nelson 
should be too overpowered. The holes in the front parlor 
carpet were adroitly covered, the oil-cloth washed — the first 
time for many months; the piano, the greatest treasure 
they possessed, was uncovered ; a new shepherdess was 
purchased, to be placed on the back parlor mantel-piece ; 
and then the Derwents felt that they could defy fate. 

“He must be hard to please,” said Hettie, as Mrs. 
Derwent called Harriet — “he must be hard to please 
if this does not satisfy him.” 


68 


WELCOMING A SON-INLAW. 


Alas for the heir of Roseneath ! There was a grand 
family consultation held as to what would be the best 
thing for supper ; John Derwent was pleased to think that 
there was an absolute necessity for the purchase of some 
little luxury. Alice had written to say that her husband 
and herself would be there by seven in the evening, 
and Mrs. Derwent said, naturally enough, they would 
want something to eat. 

should get tea, with ham and sausages,” said Hettie, 
who had a great liking for those dainties. 

Her mother agreed, observing to John Derwent that 
Hettie really was a blessing to them, she was so quick and 
so decided, so ready of resource. Mr. Derwent did not 
see much resource in sausages, but he wisely said nothing. 
At a quarter to seven the whole family assembled in great 
force in the front parlor, and it was almost as good 
as a party, Hettie said. Mrs. Derwent looked round 
doubtfully. 

I almost think,” she said, that we ought to have had 
a little wine.” 

A bottle of sherry at one-and-six, ” said the dancing- 
master; “it would have looked better.” 

“We have no decanters, papa,” said Frank, the hope of 
the family; “those people who cannot afford decanters 
should not buy wine. ” 

He was instantly ordered to be silent. 

“The bare idea,” Mrs. Derwent said, “of a boy like 
him interfering at a time like this. ” 

Then Mrs. Derwent declared that she felt quite weak 

the excitement was really too much for her. She had 
never expected a daughter of hers to many so well. Upon 
which Miss Hettie said, quickly : 


WELCOMING A SON-IN-LAW. 


69 

“Ah, that simply means an excuse for having a little 
‘ weak brandy and water,’ mamma. I will get it for you.” 

But all further sensation was put an end to ; a carriage 
drew up to the door. Mrs. Derwent just peeped out 
of the corner of the window, then sat down, looking very 
much overcome. 

“Hettie,”she said, “I am all in a tremble. It is a 
private carriage. What will the neighbors say?” 

“No one cares,” replied Hettie; “but if Alice has 
married some one well off, she is an angel, mamma, and I 
do not hesitate to say so. ” 

“I do not see that marrying a rich man makes her an 
angel,” said Rose, quietly. 

“You never understand,” was the quick retort. But 
Mrs. Derwent held up her hands. 

“ Hush, my dears — no quarreling; they are coming in. 
What is he like, I wonder?” 

The door opened, and Alice, pale with emotion, pale 
with fear and dread, yet looking inexpressibly beautiful in 
her rich traveling dress, entered first. She was followed by 
a gentleman — they recognized that fact at once — a gentle- 
man with the “grand air” that belongs to men of noble 
birth. His features were clear-cut, firm, and proud, his 
eyes dark and bright, his lips proudly delicate, his face 
filled with the eager hope, the impetuosity of youth — an 
aristocrat, a white-handed gentleman, as Hettie phrased it. 
And the apparition struck every one dumb. Frank was 
the first to recover himself. With the candor of- his age, 
he said : 

“ My word, Alice, you have married a swell !” 

Then the family recovered itself, and from each one 
present came a murmured rebuke. 


70 


WELCOMING A SON/NLA W. 


“You are not angry with me, mamma?" said Alice, 
flinging her arms round her mother’s neck. 

Angry, indeed, with that beautiful, elegantly dressed 
lady ! Mrs. Derwent quite shuddered at the thought. 
She had prepared a little lecture on filial duty; but who 
dare lecture the wife of that superb-looking man ? 

“I am not angry, my dear, only anxious," she replied, 
desirous of conciliating her son-in-law. “You are very 
young to be married. " 

“Gentlemen like young wives," interrupted Hettie, 
while John Derwent held out his hand to Lord Carsdale. 
It was not a very clean hand, nor were the nails very dain- 
tily trimmed. 

“ Vou are kindly welcome, sir," he said, “and I hope 
my daughter makes a good wife.” 

The speech was not a very eloquent one, but it was 
honest, and its earnest tone pleased Lord Carsdale. He 
shook hands with the dancing-master, who, having seen a 
very superb diamond ring on the finger of his son-in-law, 
collapsed and said no more. Then Mrs. Derwent came 
forward ; something of her old manner returned to her 
when she found herself again in the presence of a gentle- 
man. Alice was pleased; her mother spoke nicely, and 
the;horror that had gathered on her husband’s face left it. 

*^hen there came a pause — horrible while it lasted; 
a feeling of wretchedness and constraint came over them 
all. Mrs. Derwent broke it by suggesting a cup of tea. 
Lord Carsdale looked helplessly around. The bare idea 
of eating or drinking there! His notion of picturesque 
poverty had died at once; the idea of patronage did 
not long survive it. Who could patronize such a man 
as the dancing-master? John Derwent took heart of 
grace. 


WELCOMING A SON-INLAW. 


71 


‘‘Try a cup of tea, Mr. Nelson,” he said; “w^e have 
some very nice sausages — they are home-made — ^you may 
rely on them.” 

** Thank you,” said Lord Carsdale, stiffly. 

‘‘If you would like a little drop of something stronger 
than tea, sir, having traveled so far?” suggested John 
Derwent. 

Lord Carsdale felt almost inclined to be angry, but 
when he raised his eyes he met the imploring gaze of 
Alice ; the beautiful face, with its expression of wistful 
pain, was raised to his, and his humor suddenly changed — 
he could not be cross; they were her people, and, as he 
had married her, he must not complain. The humor of 
the situation grew upon him ; he, the heir of Roseneath, 
invited to dine upon tea and sausages, with a faint prospect 
of something stronger than tea I He laughed — it was im- 
possible to help it. 

Outspoken Hettie said, in her frank way : 

“I am glad to hear you laugh; you looked so solemn 
and stately, I thought perhaps you did not know how.” 

“Hush, Hettie !” cried Alice. But Lord Carsdale only 
laughed again. 

“I shall hope to show you. Miss Hettie,” he replied, 
“that I not only know how to laugh mysell^ but that I j||£i 
make others laugh.” 

“I am sure of it,” she said. 

But her accent was so dubious, he did not know 
whether the words were meant as a compliment or not. 

Then the grand tea business began, and, although he 
had resolved upon taking everything in the best-natured 
manner possible, it became rather too much for him. The 
great heat of the room, the steam of hot tea, the rosy, 
flushed faces, the strong odor of frying — it was an atmo- 


72 


AN OLD MAN CHEERED, 


sphere such as the heir of Roseneath had never breathed 
before. He bore it as long as he could, Alice watching 
his face anxiously. 

The dancing-master did his best to entertain him, and 
talked about trade in Rudeswell — to all of which Lord 
Carsdale listened, his chief feeling being one of intense 
pity for his beautiful young wife. 

Then he could bear it no longer ; he rose, saying that 
he would leave Ailie with her friends while he looked 
round. 

And it was with a feeling of relief that his wife saw him 
depart. 


CHAPTER X. 

AN OLD MAN CHEERED. 

Lord Carsdale drew a long sigh of relief as he went 
once more into the fresh air. 

** How horrible !” he said, “how unbearable ! I would 
do* a great deal to please Ailie, but I cannot possibly 
r^j^in there for the night. I will go and engage rooms 
^^e hotel.” 

Meanwhile the three ladies gathered round Alice, long- 
ing to hear the details. 

“I was so surprised, Alice,” said her mother; “I never 
was more surprised in all my life. Do you know, my 
dear, I said to myself that it was a punishment from 
Heaven that I had run away from my home to be mar- 
ried, and that now you had done the same. I hope you 
are very happy. ” 


AN OLD MAN CHEERED. 


73 

‘^Yes, mamma/’ said the girl, quietly, '‘I am very 
happy. ” 

“I see,” said Hettie, “you are growing quite a fine 
lady. I do not like very fine ladies. Alice, I hope, now 
that you are married yourself, you will do your duty by 
your sisters, and help us to find good husbands. ” 

“Speak for yourself, Hettie,” said pretty Rose. 

“I do speak for myself, and I mean every word that I 
say. I should like a good husband, one who would buy 
me plenty of dresses, and would never ask me to work. I 
say what I think. Rose; and I maintain that, now Alice 
has had the sense to secure a husband for herself, she 
should invite us to her house, and do the same for us.” 

* * I have no house, ” said Alice. 

Hettie’s face fell. 

“No house? But you will have — ^you must have. 
Your husband has plenty of money, to judge from his 
looks.” 

“Yes,” said Alice, “he has plenty, I think." 

“Think 1 Do you not know?” cried Hettie. “ Have' 
you never asked him ?” 

* ‘ Never, ” was the brief reply. 

“My word 1 Listen to that, mamma. She has never 
asked her husband what he was worth. All his airft^d 
graces would not frighten me. ” ^ 

“I am not frightened,” said Alice. “I know he is 
rich. It does not matter to me v hat he has.” 

“Hettie, child,” said her mother, “pray do not inter- 
fere ; remember your sister is a married woman now, and 
we must treat her with respect.” 

“I shall never respect my own sisters, mamma, you 
may be quite sure of that,” said Hettie; “at least, I mean 
I shall never give in to them. Being married does not 


74 


AN OLD MAN CHEERED. 


make such a wonderful difference, after all. I look quite 
as happy as Alice, with all her great marriage. ” 

‘‘I suppose, my dear," said Mrs. Derwent, “that you 
met with this gentleman in Germany. It seems very 
strange. You are quite sure that you are properly mar- 
ried.?" 

“Oh, yes, mamma," replied Alice, with a deep blush; 
“I am quite certain of it — there is no mistake." 

“That is right, my love. Your father did say that he 
should question Mr. Nelson about it ; but really he seems 
so high and mighty I should be quite afraid." 

Alice bent down and kissed her mother. 

“I should not like you to do that,” she said; “it would 
distress me very much indeed. Take my word for it, 
mamma, that there is no mistake about it; my husband 
was quite as anxious as ever you could be." 

“lam glad to hear it. You look very well, Alice, my 
love, and very beautiful. You are just what I was myself 
as a girl. What is your husband — does he follow any 
trade or profession .?" 

“No, mamma; he has means of his own," was the 
modest reply, while to herself she thought what will they 
say when they know that he is an earl’s son .? 

J »e rest of the time was spent in describing the presents 
ght from Paris, with Alice’s beautiful trousseau. 

“You are a lucky girl,” cried Hettie, as she folded up 
a rich gray silk trimmed with silver fringe; “you are for- 
tunate. I wish I were in your place. He must love you 
very dearly, this Mr. Nelson, to have bought you so many 
things. " 

“If they knew," thought poor Alice again, “that he 
had married me, as he says, to save my honor, and him- 
self from reproach, what would they say ?" 


AN OLD MAN CHEERED. 


75 

She gladdened Hettie’s heart by giving her a pretty brace- 
let ; but that young person’s curiosity was aroused. 

When shall you have a home, Alice ? Where are you 
going to live? You have been on what people call ‘the 
honeymoon,’ I suppose? What nonsense it is. Where 
are you going to live ?” 

“ Mr. Nelson’s plans are all unsettled; he talks of going 
abroad,” replied Alice. 

“I should not let him. If I had a handsome husband 
like that I should keep him at home,” said Hettie. 

Then th^ little conclave was broken up. . Lord Carsdale 
returned. 

The little, dark, dirty house seemed to look darker and 
dirtier when he stood in it. The dancing-master awaited 
him with some common, strong cigars and a bottle of 
rum. 

“I hope, sir,” he said, “you will give me the pleasure 
of your company for an hour or two while the ladies are 
out of the way. Tiy a cigar, sir ; and this is real Jamaica, 
old and strong. ” 

Lord Carsdale shuddered. 

“Thank you,” he said; “I never smoke, and I do not 
like strong liquors. ” 

“Nor do I hold with them as a rule, sir, but this Is the 
exception — my eldest daughter returns home, and I may 
say my favorite daughter too, sir. ” . 

There was such genuine emotion in his voice that again 
Lord Carsdale’s heart was touched. 

“Poor little man,” he said to himself, “it is an event in 
his life — he shall enjoy himself. I declare that I am sorry 
for him. ” 

So he entered into the spirit of the scene, to the little 
dancing-master’s keen delight. ^ 


76 


AN- OLD MAN CHEERED. 


think,” he said, “I will change my mind and join 
you, Mr. Derwent.” 

Then the dancing-master was truly happy. It was all 
horrible to Lord Carsdale, but he persevered. If he had 
married Alice for love, he might have found it unendura- 
ble — as it was, he said to himself it was all for honor’s 
sake. He grew interested, too, in the story of John Der- 
went’s life — its troubles, trials, perplexities, etc. — the hor- 
rible uncertainty that he was always in as to how he 
should, as he phrased it, make both ends meet. Lord 
Carsdale grew interested. 

“It is like a fight,” he said — “like a struggle, this life 
of yours.” 

“Yes,” said John Derwent, “and a very heavy struggle 
it is, too.” 

Then Lord Carsdale gladdened his heart. 

“I told Ailie, Mr. Derwent,” he began, “that I should 
do something to help you. Just at present it will not be 
very much, afterward it will be more. At present I shall 
allow you a hundred a year, and in time to come I will 
make it more. I do not like the idea of my wife’s father 
being in constant distress.” 

Then he looked up in amaze, for John Derwent was 
standing before him, his face perfectly white with emotion, 
his lips quivering as he spoke : 

“You will do what, sir? You will give me a hundred 
a year? You really mean it — it is not a jest?” 

“A jest? Certainly not; it would be a sorry jest to 
deceive you so. It is but a trifle — why should it agitate 
you so greatly? I will make it more in the time to come.” 

“A whole hundred a year!” said the dancing-master. 
“Why, sir, you cannot tell, you do not know, what this 
is to me i” and Lord Carsdale found his hand seized and 


AN OLD MAN CHEERED. 


77 


covered with hot kisses and tears. ‘‘God bless the gen- 
erous hands that have come to the help of me and mine !” 
he said. 

Lord Carsdale was deeply touched. 

“I never thought, sir,’' sobbed John Derwent, “that 
God would be so good to me. ” 

Then the ladies, as the honest little dancing-master 
called them, came in, and the tete-a-tete ended. 

From that hour Lord Carsdale liked his wife’s father 
better than any other member of the family. He liked 
Rose, but Harriet and Frank were terrible. For the list- 
less, complaining mother he felt profound pity, but no 
great liking. 

There was some little murmuring when the young hus- 
band announced his intention of staying at the hotel. 
John Derwent agreed. 

“You are right, sir,” he said; “our house is not fit for 
you. ” 

Mrs. Derwent merely said “she was afraid that the 
neighbors would think it very strange. ” 

Hettie murmured loudly. 

“We are not good enough for you now, I suppose, ’’she 
said to Alice; “but if ever I get married and come home 
to see my mother I shall stay at her house, even should I 
marry a duke.” 

“Dukes are not so common,” cried Frank, who spent 
the whole of his life in a species of guerrilla warfare with 
Hettie, and never missed any chance of annoying her. 

Rose was the only one who kissed Alice, and said : 

“You will be far more at home there than here, my 
darling. ” 

It was late in the evening before they could get away 
from Cecil street, and then, when they had been accom- 


AN OLD MAN CHEERED. 


78 

modated with the best room at the Rudeswell Arms, 
Alice looked timidly in her husband’s face. 

“Have you been very much annoyed?” she said. “I 
have been quite afraid to look at you — it was all so dread- 
ful. I know it, yet I cannot feel ashamed of them ; they 
are all my own people. It must have seemed so strange 
to you. ” 

“It was a phase in life,” he replied. “ I may say, can- 
didly, that I should not like too much of it. But, Ailie, 
your father is an honest man, and he has had great diffi- 
culties. ” 

He never forgot the beautiful light that came over her 
face. 

“Do you really think, Vivian,” she asked, “that you 
will be able to tolerate them? I am so thankful. I 
thought you would hate them all, and that, hating them, 
you would dislike me.” 

“I could never dislike you, Ailie. I tell you quite 
frankly, dear, I should not care to see very much of your 
family; but that is not likely to happen.” 

“You will tolerate them,” she said, “but never like 
them really?” 

‘ ‘ I shall never give you any reason for saying so, ” said 
the young husband, while to himself he admitted that 
between his friend^ and hers the difference was so great 
they might almost belong to different worlds. 

That same evening it was all over Rudeswell that John 
Derwent’s eldest daughter had married a gentleman, whom 
she had first met in Germany, and that they were staying 
at the Rudeswell Arms. While, that same evening, John 
Derwent was so elated that he wrote to the doctor. 

“ I know you have never liked me. Doctor Wallis,” his 
letter ran ; “and perhaps you are right. I could not keep 


A SISTER ADVICE. 


79 


your sister like a lady, and I ought not to have married 
her, but I am quite sure you will be pleased to hear about 
our daughter Alice. It appears that she met some rich 
gentleman when she was abroad, who fell in love with jier 
and who has married her. She did very wrong, though, 
in running away from your house. She. came, with her 
husband, to see us, and her husband, Mr. Nelson, is, I 
think, the nicest gentleman I ever met. He was not afraid 
to shake hands with me ; he called mine an honest hand. 
Poor as I am, I thought more of that shake of the hand 
than I do of the hundred a year he has so generously 
settled upon me.” 

And that letter set the doctor’s mind completely at rest. 
His niece’s marriage was nothing to him, provided she 
had not inveigled one of his pupils, and so placed him in 
jeopardy. 


CHAPTER XI. 

A S I S T E r’s advice. 

‘‘They are my people, Vivian; and though they may 
not be the same kind that you are accustomed to, still I 
love them. ” 

“I should be sorry if you did not love them, Ailie — 
family ties are the strongest in the world. Mind, I have 
nothing to say against them, not one word. Your father 
is a good, honest, simple-minded man ; I respect him — 
indeed, I rather like him than not; but there can be 
nothing in common between us, and I still think that the 
best plan will be to keep our secret faithfully. ” 


8o 


A SISTER'S ADVICE. 


This little conversation took place in consequence of 
Ailie’s having asked her husband if she might tell her 
parents, not her sisters, the truth about her marriage. She 
did not like the concealment, and it could not matter, she 
argued, they would never speak of it. Lord Carsdale was 
unwilling. If they knew his true name and title, he argued, 
i^- would lead to many unpleasant things ; besides which, it 
would not be fair to the doctor; he would lose all his 
reputation if it were once known that a pupil of his had 
married in that fashion. 

“We cheated him, Ailie,” said the young husband, 
laughingly; “but he must not suffer for it. No; I think 
that it must be as we arranged — we must keep our secret; 
and, Ailie, I will spend a few days here with you, then I 
must go home. You will like to stay with your friends 
while I am away.” 

She looked much depressed at the thought of his going ; 
but whatever changes came over Ailie’s face, the last idea 
that entered Lord Carsdale’s mind was that love for him 
so changed it. There are some men who make honor 
their ideal and their idol — he was one. 

“Ours was such a peculiar marriage,” he continued; 
“one might call it a marriage from honor, not from love. 
Peculiar cases give rise to peculiar effects. ” 

Ailie looked at him wistfully. He did not see the' pain 
in those beautiful eyes, or the quiver on the sweet lips, as 
she said : 

“Honor — ^yes, you have sacrificed much for honor. 
Will love never have anything to do with it?” 

He looked up in wonder. 

“Will you ever love me, do you mean? I cannot tell, 
Ailie ; it is a vague speculation. I am sure of one thing, 


A SISTER ADVICE. ^ 8 1 

we shall always be good comrades and good friends,” he 
replied. 

She turned away in anguish too deep for words. The 
probability that he might love her never seemed to enter 
his mind. She saw it, and knew her Tate. 

So it was arranged that they should remain for three 
days at the Rudeswell Arms hotel, then the young husband 
was to join his friends, leaving his wife with hers. He did 
his best during that time to win the good opinion of 
Alice’s friends ; but, as he himself had expressed it, there 
was nothing in common between them. Hettie proclaimed 
open war against him. He was all very well, said Hettie; 
he might be as rich as he liked ; but, for her part, she 
liked some one who seemed to understand the world was 
made for others as well as themselves ; while Frank pub- 
licly avowed him a ’aughty swell. 

“He looks at me as if he knew I had to black my own 
shoes,” cried Frank. 

“You need not blacken his character, if you do your 
own shoes,” retorted Hettie, who could not refrain from 
contradiction, even when she cordially agreed with the 
speaker. 

Rose, on the contrary, liked him. She, perhaps, more 
than the others, suspected some mystery in her sister’s 
marriage; she felt sure that Mr. Nelson was a man of 
noble birth. He was different to themselves as a Malay 
differs from a fair Saxon. 

“And we are all well-born,” thought pretty Rose; “at 
least on my mother’s side.” 

Hettie was piqued and annoyed because her sister’s hus- 
band had gone to a hotel ; because he constantly refused 
all their invitations to dinner and to tea. 

“We are not grand enough for him,” she would say; 


82 


A SISTER'S ADVICE. 


“he wants French dishes and Spanish wines. Mamma's 
greatest idea of a feast is roast pork. " 

She was bitterly annoyed, too, when Lord Carsdale in- 
vited the whole family to a grand dinner at the hotel, to 
which Mrs. Derwent went with all the remnants of finery 
she could collect — among other things, a pair of light kid 
gloves that had not one whole finger between them. 

“I would rather go with clean hands and no gloves,” 
said Hettie, scornfully, “than amuse Mr. Nelson with such 
gloves as those.” 

“You are a bad, ungrateful girl. I know what is due 
to society, ” said Mrs. Derwent, with the air of a martyr, 
“and I shall do my duty.” 

The whole family reached the hotel soon after the ap- 
pointed time, rather flushed with the struggle, but con- 
scious of looking their best. Frank wore an injured ap- 
pearance, in consequence of having been requested to go 
in a pair of his father s dancing- pumps. 

“As though a man could not have shoes of his own,” 
he remarked, more than once. 

That dinner was a source of great offense to Hettie. 
She was quite sure that Mr. Nelson had ordered French 
dishes because he knew they could not pronounce the 
names. Indeed, Hettie was so fiercely sarcastic, so abrupt, 
so purposely vulgar, that it was a relief to most of them 
when the dinner ended. Even then she was not content ; 
she followed Alice to her room. 

“So, Mrs. Nelson, this elegant young husband of yours 
leaves us to-morrow, I understand ?” 

“ Yes ; he goes to-morrow, ” said Alice. 

“ Do you feel quite sure that he will return ?” she asked, 
sneeringly. “Sometimes when those fine birds fly away, 
they never come back again. ” 


A SISTER'S ADVICE. 83 

“Hettie,” asked the young wife, sadly, “do you not 
like my husband?” 

“ No ; I do not. He uses scent and talks languidly ; I 
do not care for such men. Besides, he looks ^down on us 
all ; you may think he does not, but I see it in a hundred 
ways. I shall not cry when he goes. ” 

Alice raised her fair face ; she laid her warm, soft hands 
in her sister’s, 

“Now, Hettie,” she said, “look at my hand; could 
you wound it a hundred times each hour with the point 
of a sharp sword?” 

“No,” said Hettie; “you know that. I may talk, but 
I would not hurt you. ” 

“Yet each time you say -one word against my husband, 
Hettie, you plunge a dagger in my heart, the pain of 
which is sharper far than any wound you could inflict. If 
you love me, Hettie, try to love him. ” 

Hettie was a little touched by the pleading words, but 
it was not her way to show it. She turned sharply to her 
sister. 

“You make a great fuss about loving him, Alice,” she 
said, “but I am sure he does not love you so very much. 
Mamma said the other evening that, for a love marriage, 
it was the queerest she had ever seen. ” 

Alice recoiled, as though some one had struck her a 
terrible blow. 

“ Did she— did mamma say so? I am so sorry I Why, 
what made her say it ?” 

Hettie looked quite important at having something to 
tell which was worth telling ; she tossed her head high in 
the air, as though she would say, “See, I can tell you 
something you do-not know.” 

“Mamma said it, Alice. I heard her tell papa how 


84 


A SISTERS S ADVICE. 


strange it was that Mr. Nelson never kissed you when he 
went in and out ; that he never asked you to go out with 
him ; that he did not seem to care much about your 
society; he never calls you my love or my darling; and 
ma says that even now pa does that.” 

Hettie paused, having spoken so rapidly she could say 
no more. The shocked, white look on her sister’s face 
was a tribute to her powers of oratory. 

“Did mamma say that, Hettie?” said the poor young 
wife. “T am so sorry ; I did not know people spoke of 
me in that way. I shall never feel at ease again.” 

“ I do not see what there is to turn so pale about, Alice, 
unless it may be that you love him and he does not love 
you quite so much.” 

It was so terribly near the truth, this random shot, that 
Alice recoiled afresh. 

“ How very touchy you are,” said Hettie ; “you make 
one afraid to speak. ” 

“You need never be afraid to speak to me, Hettie; but 
if you wish to be kind, you will say nothing against my 
husband. ” 

Hettie was moved by the sweet, patient voice. 

‘ ‘ I promise you one thing, ” she said ; “I will not say 
one word more than I can possibly help, and I will treat 
him as though he were made of wax or honey, and a 
word would break him. Alice, I am the younger sister, 
but I really believe I could give you some very sensible 
advice. ” 

“I shall be glad of it,” said the beautiful young wife, 
sadly. “What is it?” 

“It is just this, my dear: Enjoy your life as much as 
you can, but never set your heart on a man ; if you do, 
you will have nothing in the world but vanity and vexation 


A SISTERS S ADVICE. 


85 


of Spirit. From my little bit of experience, I should say, 
expect stability from a weathercock, heat from the North 
Pole, light from night, rather than love, constancy, and 
fidelity from a man.” 

“Hettie, how shocking!” cried Alice. 

“Yes, very shocking, but most certainly true. The 
shocking part of the business does not lie with me ; I am 
only giving you a rough little bit of common sense. Take 
my advice, Alice — never waste your trust, your love, and 
all your thoughts by day, all your dreams by night, on any 
one man, because there is not one worth it.” 

“But what of my husband, Hettie.?” she asked, trying 
to smile. “ How am I to help loving him?” 

“Well, you please yourself. I tell you that it is wasted, 
and you will find it out some day.” 

She had found it out already, as she knew in the bitter- 
ness of her heart ; but she was so staunch and so true, she 
would rather have died than that any one should know 
hers was a marriage of honor, and not of love. 

“You are all much mistaken, Hettie,” she said, with 
quiet dignity. “In our house, unfortunately, I know it 
is the custom to speak out brusquely — to profess great 
hatred or great liking. My husband belongs to that class 
who know how to keep their feelings under their control, 
and do not ‘ wear their hearts upon their sleeves, for daws 
to peck at' ” 

“ Thank you, Alice ; I am not a daw.” 

“You need not be offended, Hettie; it is only a quota- 
tion and the young wife turned wearily away. 

It must indeed be patent to all men that he did not 
love her, if her mother had spoken like that 

Returning home late that evening, after a capital game 


^6 


THE PARTING. 


at pool, Lord Carsdale saw that his wife’s face was very 
pale, and her eyes bore traces of tears. 

“What is the matter, Ailie?” he asked, abruptly. He 
could never endure tears in a woman, and that this 
woma'h, to preserve whom he had sacrificed so much, 
should shed them, amazed him. “What is the matter?’" 
he repeated. 

“Nothing, Vivian, but that I felt dull.” 

“Dull, with all your friends about you!” he cried, in 
amaze. ‘ ‘ Why, I thought you were the happiest of the 
happy. I do my best to make you so. ” 

“You are very good to me,” she said, gratefully. 

“Then, Ailie, do not cry. I think if one thing in this 
world irritates a man more than another, it is to see his 
wife cry.” 

“Then you shall never be irritated, Vivian,” she said; 
and he smiled, well content. 

“I am going at noon to-morrow, Ailie,” he said; 
“you had better begin your arrangements for remaining 
at home.” 


CHAPTER XIL 

THE PARTING. 

“Do not write to me, Ailie, until I have written to 
you,” said the young husband. ' 

He was standing in the little parlor at Cecil street, mak- 
ing his adieus, the family grouped at a respectful distance, 
Frank wondering whether he would get the long-expected 
tip or not. Alice was only anxious over one thing — that 


THE PARTING. 87 

his farewell to her should be one which should do away 
with the impression that he did not love her. 

The carriage ordered to take him to the station was at 
the door, and in his heart of hearts Lord Carsdale was 
secretly longing for the time of departure. He was lired 
of the small, gloomy, dirty house, with its uncomfortable 
ways and its petty, miserable economies; he was tired^ 
of the ceaseless scraping of the violin, the ceaseless 
rustling of feet. Every hour seemed to make Rudeswell 
and all its belongings more and more intolerable ; yet he 
did not repent what he had done — it was for honor's sake. 
What would he not do for honor? Indeed, the more tire- 
some and annoying Rudeswell became, the greater hero 
he. He was light of heart because he was going, and it 
did not occur to him that his wife’s sweet face was pale 
with the pain of losing him. 

The desire of Frank’s heart was accomplished. Mr. 
Nelson tipped him so generously that he could not recover 
himself. Hetde was less virulent than usual. Rose was 
really sorry to lose her handsome, courtly brother-in-law. 
Both parents felt that it would be a relief when he was 
gone, and there was no further need for keeping up 
appearances. The great strain of always seeming to be a 
little better off than they really were tired them. 

Lord Carsdale had said "‘good-by” to them, and stood 
now talking to his wife. 

“How long shall you be away?” she asked; and he 
answered her that it was impossible to tell, that all 
depended on his commission. 

“I hope^you wdll have a safe journey,” she said, 
looking at him with wistful eyes, longing for one kind, 
loving word ; noting, wdth keenest pain, the pleased, 
bright face, the delight he felt at going. 


88 


THE PARTING. 


“You will be so pleased to see your own friends 
again/’ she said, sadly. Then she thought she might 
venture on a word. “You will remember, Vivian, that 
the truest friend you have in the world, the most grateful 
one, is myself.” 

“ Ypu are very good, Ailie,” he said. “Good-by, my 
dear.” 

He spoke lightly, carelessly, holding out his hand with 
a good-natured smile, without the least trace of pain, 
regret, or emotion. 

“Good-by; try to enjoy yourself as much as you can,” 
he continued. 

And Ailie saw Hettie’s eyes fixed on her. That em- 
boldened her to do what she never could have done 
without. She raised her fair, sweet face to her husband, 
for him to kiss it. As she did so the crimson flush seemed 
to burn it, and the beautiful eyes drooped until the 
white lids covered them. 

Lord Carsdale both looked and felt surprised. She was 
so shy and timid, this sweet, unloved wife of his — that she 
should, as it were, seek a caress from him, filled him with 
wonder ; he did not understand the why and the where- 
fore ; but, with that same look of half-amused wonder 
in his eyes, he bent down and kissed the sweet upturned 
face. 

“ It was a woman's way,” he thought to himself, and the 
next moment forgot all about it. 

She turned away, her wliole heart leaving her and going 
out to him ; then theriext moment he was gone. 

“Most handsomely, my dear, I am sure, has he be- 
haved,” said Mrs. Derwent, whose English was apt to 
be slightly involved. “It is only natural that you should 


THE PARTING. 8g 

repine a little; but he will soon be back. again — young 
husbands do not like being parted from their wives/’ 

never hold with it myself/’ said the dancing-master, 
*‘but in this case it cannot be helped.” 

They both looked in w'onder when Alice turned her 
beautiful, colorless face to them, it was so full of fear, 
so weary ; all the mother’s heart awoke in Mrs. Derwent. 

You will like to be by yourself for a time, my dear,” 
she said ; **go to your room, no one shall trouble you ; I 
know w'hat it is, although your papa never was compelled 
to leave me.” 

Only too thankful for escape, Alice went to her room 
and fastened the door; it was something to be able 
to weep there alone, to think of this great wonder of her 
life — her marriage. Ah 1 would the time ever come when 
the marriage begun in honor would end in love .? 

*‘He looked so surprised when I held up my face 
to him, ” she thought to herself, ‘ ‘ as though I had forgot- 
ten that kissing w’as no part of good comradeship. I 
could not help it, with Hettie’s eyes fixed on me, watch- 
ing whether he was sorry to leave me or not. Oh 1 
my love, shall you ever love me for my own sake, 
and because I love you so deeply and so dearly.? I would 
give all my life waiting for his love, if even, in dying, he 
would say that he had learned to care for me at last — con- 
tent to die if he would smile and kiss me in dying. But 
I will be patient; the old German proverb says, ‘Patience 
wins all/ I will be patient as death itself, waiting for the 
love that will surely one day be mine.” 

It was characteristic of her that she did not give one 
thought to the grandeur of the future ; she never said 
to herself that if all went well she should one day be Lady 
Carsdale or Countess of Waldrove. She never remem- 


90 


THE PARTING. 


bered it ; she never said to herself that she should be mis- 
tress of Roseneath Abbey — that she should have jewels, 
carriages, horses, all that wealth could purchase and luxury 
invent ; she only thought of the time when she should win 
his love — when he should go to her and say: “I married 
you, dear, for honors sake; I love you for your own.” 
God speed the time, for she loved him very dearly — loved 
him so well it was hard to be parted from him. 

It was so strange,” she thought to herself, ‘‘that he 
should never suspect her great love for him.” 

He never appeared to think that it was in the bounds of 
possibility for any love to enter into the matter. She 
would hope, and wait, and pray. 

“Wives have prayed for many things,” she said. “It 
will not, surely, seem strange if one prays for her hus- 
band’s love.” 

Lord Carsdale felt inexpressibly thankful to leave Rudes- 
well and its associations behind. He had done his duty — 
carried it, perhaps, a little to excess; but then every man 
does that, or should do it. The glow of satisfaction that 
comes from duties done was still warm within him, yet the 
relief was great. Ailie, in her way, was graceful and 
refined, beautiful and clever; she was ignorant of many 
things — the little niceties of etiquette, the great charm 
that arises from a perfect knowledge of society, were want- 
ing ; but she was never vulgar — her words and actions did 
not jar upon him as Hettie’s did; besides which, he 
had really a good-tempered, kindly liking for her, as 
people often have for those whom they have saved from 
great dangers. 

The rest of the family were intolerable ; it was certainly 
a relief to get away, to leave the glocypy atmosphere 
and return to the scenes long familiar to him. Every mile 


THE PARTING. 


91 

that he traveled brought him a deeper sense of happiness 
and security. 

He was received with open arms at stately Roseneath. 
Lord Waldrove had peculiar ideas of his own; one was 
that it was not wise to be too severe with young men ; he 
fancied that treating them with kindly indulgence won 
their confidence ; so when his son returned, after a long 
absence of some weeks, he merely said to him : 

You have been to Paris, then, my boy?” 

Yes,” was the reply ; “and from Paris to Switzerland. 
I am very glad to be at home again ; there is no place like 
home.” 

The earl was delighted ; to love home was a virtue 
in his eyes«— one that covered many faults. 

“Your mother seemed to think it strange that you did 
not come straight back from the doctor’s ; but I told her, 
after a long spell of reading, you would naturally require a 
little holiday.” 

His conscience reproached him; a keen, sharp pain 
almost stabbed him as he thought how he had deceived 
this indulgent, kindly father; his lips quivered with pain. 
Then he said to himself it was all for honor, for honors 
sake ; he had no cause for regret ; before now, kings had 
given their crowns, men had poured out their lives like 
water for honor’s sake ; he might easily bear the pain of 
having deceived those who trusted him most and loved 
him best. 

Roseneath has been for long years one of the most 
beautiful and celebrated mansions in England; there is 
no book descriptive of English life in which a vignette of 
Roseneath does not find a place. It stands on the brow 
of a hill, and is»said to look over three counties. The 
abbey itself existed before the reign of Henry the Eighth, 


92 


THE PARTING. 


who, after destroying it as a religious house, beautified it, 
and soon after it came into the possession of the Wal- 
droves. The great beauty of the place was the enormous 
quantity of roses that grew there. Through the lanes and 
the meadows the hedges were covered with wild roses ; the 
walls of the abbey were covered by them ; they climbed 
the windows, the towers, the turrets, beautiful roses of 
every shade ; in the gardens they abounded ; there were 
white roses and red, the lovely gloire de dijon, maiden's 
blush, musk roses, damask roses, and moss roses ; the air 
for miles around seemed to be perfumed by roses. 

The abbey was a grand building, gothic in style, with 
gloriously arched windows, with tall towers and fine gate- 
ways. The rooms were all lofty, large, and light. They 
were furnished with the utmost magnificence, the Earl of 
Waldrove being one of the wealthiest peers in England. 

The grounds around the abbey were magnificent; the 
park, the pleasure-grounds, the terraces leading from the 
abbey to the smooth lawn below, terraces' on which the 
loveliest flowers bloomed, while stately cedars shaded the 
lawn. The deep, clear waters of the lake shone between 
the trees; antlered deer browsed under the tall trees. 
There were long ranges of conservatories, ferneries, hot- 
houses — all kinds of ornamental grounds, beautifully laid 
out. The trees that surrounded Roseneath Abbey were a 
fortune in themselves ; their age was not rightly known, 
but they were the finest oaks and elms in England. Some 
of the oak trees were large enough and hollow jnough to 
form small rooms. There, to this day^ they show-a superb, 
massive oak, in which they declare King Chades slept 
more than once. 

The family matched the mansion ; they were among the 
oldest and most conservative in the land. The present 


A PROUD FAMILY, 


93 


earl — Stephen, Lord Waldrove — was a good-tempered, 
easy, indulgent man, only firm and severe where his' 
family honor was at stake — then he had no pity, no 
mercy ; and Lucia, his wife, was, if possible, more uncom- 
promising than himself. To them the earth and all that it 
contained had been made for the Waldroves; they con- 
sidered themselves second only to royalty ; they were 
proud to the proudest degree; either of them, father or 
mother, would rather have seen one of their children dead 
than married beneath them. In their children this exag- 
gerated sense of honor existed, although it took with 
them a different shape. 

It was to this family, prouder than the proudest, that 
Vivian, Lord Carsdale, was to introduce the dancing- 
masters daughter as his wife. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

A PROUD FAMILY. 

The Countess of Waldrove sat alone in her beautiful 
morning-room — a room such as one seldom sees out of a 
dream or a picture. The hangings were all of superb 
amber satin and white lace ; a few rare crimson flowers, in 
beautiful, jardiniers ; a beautiful copy of the Venus de Milo, 
standing between curtains of amber brocade ; a few pic- 
tures, each one a gem ; a lovely face by Greuze, a Madonna 
by Raphael, a landscape by Claude, and one or two water- 
colors that the countess had finished most exquisitely her- 
self; gems of art, exquisite pieces of Dresden china, a rare 


94 


A PROUD FAMILY. 


Wedgewood, beautiful little carvings in ivory, were scat- 
tered over the tables ; books in rare and beautiful bindings. 
The Countess Lucia, Lady Waldrove, reclined on a couch 
of amber satin, toying negligently with a little King Charles 
spaniel that lay on a cushion by her side — the very picture 
of elegance and luxuiy'; the atmosphere seemed filled with 
it ; one could not imagine vulgar cares presuming to enter 
here. Lady Waldrove was a tall, stately brunette. She had 
been exceedingly handsome in her youth ; even now she 
was considered one of the finest-looking women in the 
peerage. Lady Waldrove wore a morning-dress of white 
muslin, with maize-colored ribbons ; on her luxuriant hair 
she wore a morning-cap of rich Valenciennes lace;, a cup 
of chocolate stood on a silver tray by her side. But the 
countess had little thought for her chocolate; she was 
thinking of, to her, the most important person in the whole 
world — Vivian, Lord Carsdale, heir of Roseneath. 

The door of the morning-room opened slowly, and a 
young girl entered, tall and dark, as were all the Cars- 
dales. The countess had a supreme contempt for fair 
people; to her idea, fair complexions and weak minds 
always went together. Lady Linda, the eldest of the 
Ladies Carsdale, cautiously, almost timidly, entered her 
mother’s presence. People, as a rule, were very fearful of 
disturbing her ladyship’s repose. She looked up quickly. 

“Is that you, Linda? Come in; I was just sending 
for you. ” 

Lady Linda went up to her mother, and bending grace- 
fully, she kissed the white, jeweled hands that lay on the 
little King Charles dog. It was seldom that Lady Wal- 
drove’s daughters, unasked, kissed their mother’s face. 

“Good-morning, dear mamma,” said Lady Linda. 
“ How is Floss?” 


A PROUD FAMILY. 


95 


To love Lady Waldrove was also to love her dog Floss ; 
the one could not be liked without the other. 

‘^My dear Linda, I am not quite satisfied over Floss — 
he has refused his chicken this morning. Last night I 
sent the most tender piece of lamb cutlet, but he turned 
away from it. Smithson says he eats too much, but Floss 
is too refined for that. ” 

The girl bent down and stroked the dog’s silken ears. 

“I think, mamma, that perhaps a little exercise would 
restore your pet. Shall I take him out in the grounds V 

Lady Waldrove looked quite interested. 

*‘You are very amiable, Linda,” she said. “I should 
be quite pleased ; but that is not what I wanted you for. 
Smithson tells me your brother Vivian came home quite 
late last night, and I want to see him. Will you tell 
him so.?” 

The girl’s face flushed with pleasure. 

“I am so glad, mamma — it seems so long since Vivian 
was here. I will go at once. ” 

If Lord Carsdale had a preference for one sister, it was 
certainly for Lady Linda. He always said that if his 
mother’s training had left any nature in either of them, it 
was certainly in Linda. Lady Gertrude moved, spoke, 
thought, and smiled by rule. No matter what he or any 
one else said, they were both of them charming, elegant, 
high-bred, amiable girls — excessively worldly, but that was 
the result of their training. They did think of another 
world sometimes, for Lady Waldrove was always religious 
in the country — in town there was no time for it. 

Of course the one grand ultimatum was that the Ladies 
Carsdale should marry well ; there seemed every prospect 
of it. Lady Gertrude had attracted the attention of Lord 
Rawdon, than whom no more promising peer ever lived. 


96 


A PROUD FAMILY, 


He had not, as the countess pompously phrased it, ‘de- 
clared himself,” but she felt quite sure that, sooner or 
later, he intended to propose for her daughter. 

The Ladies Carsdale were not precisely beautiful; as 
their brother always said, they were “thoroughbred.” They 
were both tall, with fine dark eyes, and dark hair, richly 
colored faces, with very beautiful mouths. They were very 
elegant and accomplished, very proud, believing almost 
implicitly, as their parents did, that the world was made 
for the Waldroves. Neither of them could have loved or 
married an inferior in station. 

The Lady Gertrude permitted herself to like Lord Raw- 
don because he was a most eligible match. 

The countess had a nearer and dearer hope still. That 
season in town the Duke of Clave rdon had requested an 
introduction to the Lady Linda, and had seemed very 
much taken with her. He had danced, flirted, sung,' rode, 
and driven with her ; but the expected proposal had not 
followed. Now, to see Lady Linda Duchess of Claverdon 
was the wish nearest to her mother’s heart ; that was one 
reason why she wanted to see her son. She thought that 
he could, with better grace than herself, ask the duke to 
Roseneath. 

“She would make a charming duchess,” thought Lady 
Waldrove, as she watched her daughter. “I hope Vivian 
will be able to suggest something. ” 

She did not profess to be a very fond mother ; she sel- 
dom went into raptures over her children ; but her heart 
beat fast and her face flushed when her handsome, lordly 
son entered the room. If she really loved anything on 
earth, it was Vivian ; she idolized him ; all her hope and 
ambition were centered on him ; she thought him the 
most handsome, the most clever, the most gifted of human 


A PROUD FAMILY. 


97 


beings ; as for his future, her hopes over it were boundless 
as the deep sea. She looked round the world of women 
with dreamy eyes ; who was there good enough for him ? — 
a princess royal, perhaps, but few others. There was just 
one girl in England whom she thought beautiful enough, 
good enough, and rich enough to be her son’s wife, and 
that was the lovely young Lady Ethel Pierpont, only 
daughter and heiress of Earl Pierpont, of Mount Pleasant 
and Falmouth Park. That was a match which, from every 
point of view, would have exactly suited her ; but she was 
too wise to mention it. The Lady Ethel had but just 
reached her sixteenth year ; there was no hurry. 

The greeting between mother and son was most kindly. 
He kissed his mother’s face without invitation, then sat 
down on the amber couch by her side, taking the King 
Charles on his knee. 

Floss grows too stout, mother,” he said, laughingly. 

The countess sank back on the amber satin couch with 
a languid smile ; she was always so unutterably happy 
when her son was near. 

“I have thought you long in coming, Vivian,” she said, 
in her sweet, low voice. “I have been quite impatient to 
see you. ” 

“Very gentle impatience, mother,” he replied, laugh- 
ingly. 

“And what has kept you away from me so long, my 
dear boy ?” she asked. 

“I have been to France and Switzerland, mother,” he 
replied. 

Then he suddenly grew grave with a terrible gravity, for 
it flashed across him w/ia/ he had done! He, the heir of 
this ancient house, the son of this royal woman, had 
married a dancing-master's daughter! It flashed across 


98 


A PROUD FAMILY. 


him with a keenness of regret and pain that frightened 
him. At that moment the contrast between himself and 
Alice, husband and \\ife; the contrast between the two 
homes, Cecil street and Roseneath Abbey; the contrast 
between his father, the peer, and her father, the dancing- 
master — struck him with a sharp, keen fear. What had he 
done? What could there be in common between two such 
homes.? Beautiful as she was, could he ever bring Ailie 
to this stately, haughty mother of his, and say, ‘‘This is 
my wife?” He could imagine the calm scorn, the un- 
spoken contempt in his mother’s eyes as he did so. 

Then he roused himself — it was for honor’s sake ; men 
died for honor, he had only lived. A sudden idea occurred 
to him — he would ask his mother what she thought of a 
parallel case; then he should understand better how to 
tell her when the time came. ; , 

They talked for a few minutes on indifferent subjects ; 
then he said : 

“I heard a very strange story the other day, mother. 
I can give you no names — it was confidential, you under- 
stand. ” 

“My dear Vivian, names seldom interest me.” 

“Unless they have titles,” he replied, laughingly. “But 
hear the story, mother ; 1 thought it strange. A gentle- 
man — I can answer for it that he was a gentleman — invites 
a young girl to go out with him for a day’s holiday ” 

“How shocking !” cried her ladyship, with scorn. ‘ ‘ Pray 
do not say ‘gentleman,’ Vivian; no gentleman could do 
such a thing. ” 

“Pray listen, mother. He did it — there was some 
reason given; I forget v.hat exactly. She ^yas unhappy, 
and it was to give her one day’s happiness.” 

. “Very imprudent,” said her ladyship, indifferently. 


A PROUD FAMILY. 


99 


“Yes, it was imprudent. Well, the end of the day's 
pleasure was, they were too late for the return train, and 
the girl, living with strict relatives, would have been 
ruined for life had he not sacrificed himself and married 
her." 

“And whai?" cried her ladyship. 

“Married her," replied Lord Carsdale — “married her, 
to save her from blame and reproach." 

“ How utterly absurd, Vivian ! Pray do not repeat such 
a story; people will think you mad for retailing it. Mind ! 
Floss does not like her ears pulled." 

“ Then you do not^see anything grand or heroic in such 
a marriage ?" he aske^. 

‘ ‘ Grand ! heroic ! I hardly understand how you can 
talk such nonsense. Common sense is better than heroism, 
and there is no common sense in that." 

“No, there is not. But what should you think of the 
man who did it, mother.?" 

“Think.?" said the Countess Waldrove. “I am not 
addicted to harsh words, but in this case I must say the 
man was a simpleton for his pains. But never mind that 
foolish story, Vivian; I want to consult you about the 
Duke of Claverdon. I think you could ask him down for 
a week. " 

“Why do you want him here?" asked Vivian. 

“ My dear boy, what are you thinking of? What a ques- 
tion ! — fancied I had told you he liked Linda." 

He looked up with a smile. 

“So my Linda is to be a duchess — Duchess of Claver- 
don. She will have a good husband if she marries the 
duke." 

“Yes,” said the countess; “and you must not forget 
that if the duke marries Linda he will have a good wife." 


lOO 


SISTER AND WIFE CONTRASTED. 


Lord Carsdale was struck again ; they were children of 
one mother, Linda and himself ; she was to marry a duke, 
and he had married the daughter of a dancing-master. 

^‘Of course,’' said the countess, with proud humility, 
*‘I know that the duke is a grand parti, I should like 
him to come while you are at home, Vivian ; and we must 
have everything very nice for him. ” 

“Yes,” agreed Vivian, adding to himself ; “This would 
be the worst time in the world to tell my mother the truth ; 
even the duke might be frightened away if he knew about 
the dancing-master. I must wait.” 

And wait he did. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

SISTER AND WIFE CONTRASTED. 

The “little affair” of the duke was most adroitly man- 
aged. Lord Carsdale wrote to him, saying that he had a 
few weeks at Roseneath before joining his regiment, and 
how much he should enjoy seeing him. The duke’s reply 
was such as filled Lady Wald rove’s heart with pleasure, and 
Lady Linda’s with hope. 

The Duke of Claverdon was a prize worth securing ; his 
rent-roll was enormous; coal mines had been found on 
one of his estates. Claverdon Manor was one of the finest 
estates in England ; besides which the duke was the happy 
possessor of a charming seat in Kent, a valuable estate in 
North Wales, a.beaptiful sea-side residence in the Isle of 
Wight? The ClaverdoD "stables held some of the finest 
hunters in England, the Claverdon jewels weie famous, so 


SISTER AND WIFE CONTRASTED. 


lOl 


that if the dark-eyed, low-voiced Lady Linda could secure 
such a prize she was indeed a fortunate girl. 

The question was, would she secure him.? Would he 
continue at Roseneath those attentions he had paid her 
when in London ? Lord Carsdale loved Lady Linda ; she 
was very gentle, very affectionate ; she was warm and true 
of heart; he relied greatly upon her, and now he was 
intensely interested for her. 

A girl so completely and thoroughly well-bred as the 
Lady Linda Carsdale only permits familiar acquaintance 
with the most eligible of men. Had his grace of Claver- 
don been poor or nameless, she w'ould not have looked at 
him. Coming before her with all the prestige of rank, 
wealth, and position, she had found him irresistible. The 
great ladies of the great world do not take love as the 
grand, serious passion more commonplace women believe 
it to be. 

Had the duke raised his hat and ridden away. Lady 
Linda would have sighed ; she might even, in the darkness 
and silence of her own room, have shed a few tears, but 
she would have welcomed the next most eligible man after 
the duke. Great ladies marry for position, for rank, for 
honor; if love goes with it, so much the better; if not — 
well, the good things of this world give a delight all their 
own. ^ 

The duke was expected to arrive on Tuesday evening, 
about an hour before dinner, and Lord Carsdale awaited, 
with some anxiety, the entrance of his favorite sister into 
the drawing-room. 

She came in, looking very nice; her beautiful figure and 
sweet, refined face had a great charm. She was beautifully 
dressed in pale amber silk that was almost covered with 
white lace; a superb gloirede Dijon rose in her hair and 


102 


SISTER AND WIFE CONTRASTED. 


one in the low bodice of her dress, there was a faint, sweet 
perfume hanging about her. Her movements were all so 
charmingly graceful, her voice so perfectly harmonious, 
her accent so refined, that Lord Carsdale was struck by 
her. He sighed involuntarily as he looked at her. 

Ah ! if he had married such a wife as this, how proudly 
he might have brought her home. He thought of poor, 
beautiful Ailie, and wondered that she and his sister be- 
longed to the same world. He went up to his sister. 

‘‘Come in the conservatory with me, Linda,"" he said; 
‘ ‘ I want to talk to you. "" 

Even as h^ walked by her side he was thinking of the 
difference between the two. His sisters 'walk had in it 
some of the free action, the free grace that distinguish 
Spanish ladies; it was a pleasure .to watch her. He sighed 
again. Ailie was more beautiful — her face was a dream of 
loveliness. If she could but acquire this grace. 

“ Who taught you to walk so well, Linda?"" he asked. 

His sister looked up at him in wonder. 

“Taught me to walk?"" she repeated. “My nurse, I 
suppose. "" 

“Yes, of course; I do not mean that. I mean how 
have you acquired that peculiar grace in walking so differ- 
ent to the manner cf women of a lower class?"" 

“I had masters of deportment, of course; and Madame 
Tregamier was veiy particular about our style of walking."" 

“Then such a style is acquired,"" he said; “it is not 
natural. Thank Heaven for that — others may learn it."" 

The gentle face expressed great wonder, but Lady Linda 
asked no question, she made no remark. 

“Linda,” said Lord Carsdale, “I want to ask you one 
question. Tell me, do you really like the Duke of Clav- 
erdon — really.^" 


SISTER AND WIFE CONTRASTED, 


103 


“Yes, I like him very much indeed,” she replied. 

“But do you love him ?” 

She blushed — ^just the sweetest, faintest rose flush that 
ever covered a face. 

“Love him?” she repeated. “What a question to ask 
me.” 

“It is a very natural question,” he cried. “Tell me, 
would you be his wife if he asked you ?” 

She waited a few minutes before replying, then she said, 
gently : 

“Yes, most certainly I would.” 

“You would be quite happy as his wife, Linda?” 

“Yes, quite happy, Vivian.” 

“Shall you be disappointed,” he continued, “if he does 
not ask you to be his wife?” 

“I — yes, I think I. shall,” she replied. “But what 
strange questions you ask me.” 

“Will it be the duke or the man that you will regret?” 
he asked. 

And Lady Linda, after thinking for a moment, said : 

“Both.” 

Then he was content; he resolved to do all in his 
power to aid in the wooing. 

The duke arrived; and Lord Carsdale, who watched 
him closely, came to the conclusion that he did love his 
sister, and that all would go well. 

During dinner the conversation- turned upon one whom 
they had all known — Colonel Sefton — who had recently 
made himself famous by marrying an actress. The duke 
spoke warmly of it. 

“ I have no patience,” he said, “with a man who com- 
mits a folly of that kind. No man ought ever to marry 
beneath him ; and if he does, he ought to descend to the 


104 


SISTER AND WIFE CONTRASTED. 


level of the woman he marries. I have the greatest con- 
tempt for anything of the kind.” 

“Heaven help me, then!” thought Lord Carsdale. 
“What would he say if he knew my story.?” 

Lady Waldrove thought the duke the most sensible 
man she had ever met. In her clear, high-bred voice, she 
said : 

“I quite agree in your ideas; I think nothing so dread- 
ful as a mesalliance of that kind.” 

“Such a marriage strikes a blow at the very foundation 
of society,” said the duke. “Too much cannot be said 
against it. Society v/ould be utterly ruined if the different 
classes composing it were so mixed by marriage.” 

While Lord Carsdale, listening in silence, thought how 
more than fortunate it was that this stately circle of noble 
relations and friends knew nothing of his little escapade. 

“And yet,” he said to himself, “I am sure there was 
higher chivalry, higher honor, more royal generosity in 
marrying that girl than in leaving her to be turned adrift 
on the wcrld. No one would have believed her innocent. 

I have been honorable after my own fashion, ” he said ; 

‘ ‘ they can please themselves ; I have done what I thought 
right; they will do the same, I suppose.” 

But it made him thoughtful, more thoughtful than he 
had ever been in his life before. 

For the first time he noticed how rigid the laws of caste 
were — how proud and reserved his own people were, after 
all. Easy, free, and kind with their equals, gracious and 
generous to their dependents, cold, proud, and reserved to 
their inferiors. 

As he had journeyed home, after that rash, hasty mar- 
riage of his, he had thought many things. One was that 
he would boldly declare and avow what he had done ; after 


SISTER AND WIFE CONTRASTED. 


105 


all he had a perfect right to please himself. No one could 
disinherit him ; he would go home and tell them of his 
marriage, and he would ask — this is what made him shud- 
der, now that he remembered it — he would ask if Ailie 
might remain with them at Roseneath while he was abroad 
with his regiment. She would then — being so quick and 
so clever — she would catch their tone and manner — she 
would adopt their language and habits — she would imitate 
them and grow like them, with all their charm of grace 
and refinement. That had been his first idea; now he 
shuddered at it ; what was more, he felt quite certain that 
if the proud Duke of Claverdon had any idea that there 
was such a mesalliance in the family, he would never marry 
his sister Linda. He thanked Heaven now that he had 
said nothing about it ; now he vowed to himself that he 
would keep his secret while he lived. They should never 
laugh at him and call him Don Quixote — he would keep 
his Quixotism to himself. And yet all his sympathies 
were with them ; he thought as they thought, he spoke as 
they spoke, he despised low marriages in others ; he said 
to himself that the motive of his marriage redeemed it and 
made it noble. He had married for honors sake — the 
honor of a woman ; they married to add to their own 
honor, their own rank and position. 

“ I am the noblest Roman of them all,” he said to him- 
self, “though I have married a dancing-master’s daugh- 
ter. ” 

He saw no way now of declaring his marriage. For 
himself, he might bear his mother’s scorn, his sister’s well- 
bred wonder, his father’s hot anger, the contempt of his 
friends, but if he avowed his marriage he knew that the 
duke would never marry Linda. That proudest of men 
would never marry the sister-in-law of a dancing-master’s 


Io6 SISTEJi AND WIFE CONTRASTED. 

daughter. It would put an end to his mother’s hope for 
the girls, for, disguise it as he would, there was something 
ridiculous attached to the idea. A dancing-master’s daugh- 
ter ^nd the son of an earl ! He wished that honest John 
Derwent had been an artist, a musician, anything except 
just what he was. For Linda’s sake and for Gertrude’s 
sake, he must keep his secret, at least until they were mar- 
ried and settled. So he was silent, and the story of that 
hasty, reckless marriage was not told. 

As the time passed on he understood better what he had 
done — it came home very clearly to him one morning. 
The earl, his father, had purchased for him a new hunter, 
a magnificent animal, and he sent for his son to the stables 
to inspect it. 

“See, Vivian,” said Lord Waldrove; “I hope you will 
be pleased with Saladin. I have been some time in 
choosing him for you — I was determined that you should 
have a good one. ” 

Lord Carsdale expressed his pleasure and delight. 

“I have been three months in deciding over Saladin,” 
said the earl; “I have seen some fine horses, but I had 
resolved on having the best for you. Then,” he added, 
laughingly, “there is a moral in that for you, Vivian. If 
I have spent three months in choosing a horse, how long 
should you spend in choosing a wife?” 

Lord Carsdale looked very uncomfortable. 

“That I can hardly tell,” he said ; “it would all depend 
on whether it was a case of love at first sight or not.” 

The earl laid his hand kindly on the young man’s 
shoulder; he looked almost wistfully into the handsome 
face. 

“I am only jesting, Vivian,” he said. “Of course, 
some time or other you will marry — I hope so ; but I have 


A MOTHER STRATAGEM. 


toy 


faith in you. I know your choice will be one that will 
please us and honor yourself. I wish every father in Eng- 
land had as much faith in his son as I have in you.” 

The young lord kissed his father’s hand. Those kind, 
trusting words were hard to hear; if it had not been for 
the thought of his sister’s marriage he would in that 
moment have told the truth about his own. 


CHAPTER XV. 

A mother’s stratagem. 

Lucia, Countess of Waldrove, was a far-seeing, shrewd, 
keen, quick woman of the world; she understood men 
and women; in her graceful, indolent fashion she ruled 
them with an iron hand — it was an undoubted case of the 
iron hand under the velvet glove. She had studied her 
son’s character, and was not at all surprised to find in it a 
considerable amount of that charming quality called “con- 
tradiction,” a quality that seems like second nature to the 
noble sex of men ; she was prepared for it, and resolved 
upon managing him accordingly. 

She said to herself that if she mentioned the name of 
Lady Ethel Pierpont, and suggested that, as she was mar- 
velously beautiful and wonderfully rich, it would be well 
for her son to marry her, he would at once rebel, and talk 
the usual nonsense about choosing for himself. Lady 
Waldrove understood him too well for that. 

“He shall see Lady Ethel first,” she said, “then we 
shall see what follows. ” 

One morning, about the third of the duke’s visit, Lord 


Io8 A MOTHER STRATAGEM. 

Carsdale went into his mother’s room. She looked tired, 
and reclined on the couch of amber satin — Floss on a 
silken cushion at her feet. The countess looked very grand 
and picturesque in a black velvet dress and head-dress of 
Mechlin lace. She looked up with a smile as her son 
entered — she was always pleased to see him. 

“Alone, mother?” he said. “I thought Linda was 
here.” 

“Linda is with the duke, my dear. He asked her to 
take him into the rose-garden ; she went half an hour ago. 
Sit down here by me, Vivian ; it is not often that I see you 
alone. We have but few tete-a~ietes now. Tell me what 
you think of the duke.” 

“ I think he is very noble, frank, honest, honorable, but 
very proud.” 

“ Proud !” repeated the countess. “ I have not noticed 
that. In what way is he proud, Vivian?” she asked, 
anxiously. 

“I can hardly tell. He says so much about low mar- 
riages, and all that kind of thing.” 

Lady Waldrove looked wonderingly in her son’s face. 

“ Is that all? Do you call that pride? I call it proper 
spirit, and I admire him the more for it Is that the only 
fault you have to find with him, Vivian ?” 

“I know of no other, mother. I really like him very 
much indeed — more than I can tell you. Has he said 
anything to Linda?” 

‘ ‘ I fancy that is what he is saying to her now, ” was the 
well-pleased answer. “Vivian, give me that fan — the large 
one. I find the morning warm.” 

“You are warmly dressed, mother,” said the young 
lord. “I like to see you in black velvet better than 
in anything you wear. ” 


A MOTHER'S STRATAGEM, 


109 


He rose and went to the table in search of the fan. 
How was be to know that it had been purposely laid side 
by side with a superb painting, the portrait of the loveliest 
girl in Europe, the Lady Ethel Pierpont? 

He stood gazing at it like one in a dream, forgetting his 
errand, his mother, his wife, and everything else, in the 
superb beauty of that fair young face. Lady Waldrove 
raised her head. 

‘‘What are you looking at, Vivian? What are you 
doing?” 

He went over to her couch quietly, holding the picture 
in his hand. 

“Mother,” he said, in a low voice, “whose portrait is 
this?” 

The countess looked at it with an expression of great 
annoyance, though her heart beat fast with delight at 
the success of her stratagem. 

“You must not touch that, Vivian; indeed you should 
not have looked at it. ” 

“Who is it, mother?” he repeated. 

“That I would rather not tell you,” she replied. “It 
is no one whom you have ever seen ; it is the portrait of a 
friend of mine.” 

“A friend of yours, and I do not know her?” he said. 

“Her mother is a friend of mine,” said the countess; 
“it is she who sent me her daughter’s portrait. I have 
seen her daughter several times. You do not know 
them.” 

“That is true. If I had seen the original of that 
picture, mother, I should have remembered her. It is 
your favorite style of beauty, too — Spanish and English 
mixed.” 


I lO 


A MOTHERS S STRATAGEM. 


*^Put it down, Vivian,” said the countess, affecting 
annoyance. 

Instead of obeying her, he carried it to the light, 
looking at it with eyes full of admiration. 

“She has the mouth of a goddess,” he said, “and the 
molding of her face is perfect. What dark, bright eyes, 
proud and sweet !” 

“Pray put that picture away, Vivian,” said the countess, 
and this time she spoke in a firmer tone. She laughed to 
herself. “ If I had asked him to admire it he would have 
refused,” she thought ; “forbidding him to do it gives it a 
zest. Put it where you found it,” she continued, “and 
bring me my fan.” 

He went up to her, the picture still in his hands. 

“Mother,” he said, “you are really cruel to me. Do 
tell me who this is.” 

‘ ‘ Why do you wish to know ?” she asked. 

“Because it is so beautiful, and there is something 
about it which seems — I cannot express myself ; the eyes 
smile at me as though she and I had a secret between us. 

“ What nonsense !” said the delighted countess. “Obey 
me, Vivian; replace the picture where you found it, and 
forget it.” 

' ‘ Why ?” he asked, briefly. 

“ I will tell you why,” said the countess; “because her 
beauty is as fatal as was the beauty of Helen of Troy. To 
look long on it is to long for it, and such longing would 
all be in vain. ” 

“ Why ?” he said, eagerly. 

“I would really much prefer declining to answer your 
question,” she said. 

He bent down and kissed her face. 


A MOTHER STRATAGEM. 


Ill 


**When I was a boy and wanted anything, I used to kiss 
you for it, mother,” he said. 

You are a boy now, and a big one,” replied the proud 
mother; am not sure if a kiss will have the same 
effect. ” 

She saw a determined expression come over his face, and 
then she knew all was right. 

“Mother, do not tantalize me,” he said; “tell me why 
you do not wish me to look at this picture.” 

“Because the beauty of it is great,” she said, “and that 
beauty is not for you. ” 

“How do you know that?” he asked, entirely forget- 
ting, in his eagerness over the portrait, the unfortunate 
story of his marriage. “ How do you know, mother, that 
I could not win it if I choose?” he said. “I could win 
almost anything that I choose to win.” 

He looked so kingly in his proud young beauty that his 
mother quite believed it. 

“It is not for you, my dear boy,” she said. “The 
original of that picture is the daughter and heiress of one 
of the most illustrious houses in England; her parents 
will expect almost a royal alliance for her. Do not think 
about her, Vivian; it would all be in vain.” 

“ I am not so sure of that, mother,” he said. 

“But I am. Put the picture away, and forget it. 
Sleeping or waking, steel your heart against it — do not 
let its beauty gain on you; and it is very beautiful, 
is it not?” 

“I can hardly imagine that any living woman is like 
that, ” he said. 

The countess laughed. 

“ My dear Vivian,” she said, “she is not a woman ; she 
is only a girl— a slender, graceful girl. She reminds me 


1 12 


A MOTHERS S STRATAGEM. 


of a beautiful lily, or rather rose; she will not be a woman 
of the world for some time yet/' 

^‘Mother," said Lord Carsdale, “having told me so 
much, tell me a little more. Who is she? — what is her 
name ?" 

“She is the Lady Ethel Pierpont, the only daughter and 
heiress of the Earl of Pierpont. His seat is Mount 
Pleasant; he -has Falmouth Park also. But you know the 
family, although you have not seen the Lady Ethel." 

“ Ethel Pierpont," he said to himself; “ it is a beautiful 
name, mother." 

“Yes; but we will not talk any more about it, Vivian. 
Place the picture where you found it, and bring me 
my fan." 

This time he obeyed, and his clever, diplomatic mother 
smiled when she heard him, half an hour afterward, hum- 
ming the air of the old song : 

“ If she be not fair to me. 

What care I how fair she be ?” 

The countess was pleased ; her little plot was progress- 
ing favorably. 

That same evening she called Lady Gertrude to her. 

“Gertrude," she said, “I saw your brother talking 
to you very gravely after dinner; would you mind telling 
me what he was saying? Of course it was nothing con- 
fidential. " 

Lady Gertrude was accustomed to her mother’s diplo- 
macy — nothing ever surprised her. She answered, simply : 

“ I can have no possible objection to telling you every 
word, mamma. Vivian was asking me all about the 
Pierponts. " 

Lady Waldrove could have laughed al.'^nd. 

r 


A MOTHER* S STRATAGEM. 


II3 

“How well I understand him/’ she thought. “How 
well I can manage him.” 

“ What did you tell him, Gertrude?” she asked. 

“Just the plain truth, mamma. Did I do right?” 

“Certainly, my dear; truth is always right. You told 
him that we met the Pierponts this year in London, 
and that we were charmed with them — above all, with 
Lady Ethel.?” 

“I told him that exactly, mamma. He asked me a 
hundred questions about Lady Ethel, her age, who 
admired her, whom she liked, what people said of her, 
and more questions than I could remember if I tried.” 

“Did he?” said my lady. “That is strange.” 

Lady Gertrude made no comment; it was not the 
custom to comment upon what the countess said. 

She smiled again when that evening she saw her son 
come quietly from the morning-room. She knew quite 
well that he had been to take one more glance at the 
beautiful face of Lady Ethel Pierpont. 

“The spell is working,” thought the countess; “I shall 
have the wish of my heart after all ; my daughters will 
marry well, and my son — my noble, handsome Vivian — 
will marry the heiress of the Pierponts ; every mother in 
England will envy me.” 

She was quite right in her ideas ; it was to visit the pict- 
ure once more that he had gone into her room, for the face 
haunted him. He could not forget it — the fatal, bewitch- 
ing beauty; the fair, fresh young loveliness; the proud, 
sweet, frank, fearless eyes; the lovely laughing lips and 
dimpled chin. He went again and again to look at it. 
Of course it was only a picture — he knew that ; he only 
admired it as a work of art. This royal young beauty was 
not for him — they would want a royal wooer for her ; and 


114 


A MOTHER* S STRATAGEM. 


yet, looking in the fair, noble face, something in it 
drew his heart to her — there was a look in the eyes 
as though they held a secret in common, a look in 
the face as though they never could be strangers. 

‘‘I am sure I could win her, ” he said ; ** no matter what 
the countess thinks, I could win her. Proud, noble, 
frank, fearless, refined — I understand her, even from look- 
ing at her face. ” 

Then he stopped abruptly. How foolish he was ! What 
was he thinking about? How could he wfin her? He 
was married himself — married to a dancing-master’s daugh- 
ter — a beautiful, untaught girl, who could never be a wife 
to him — a girl whose name he dared not mention within 
the walls of his stately home. He found refuge in his old 
comfort — it was for honor’s sake. He looked at the face 
again. 

“She would understand,” he thought; “she would 
understand anything done for honor’s sake. ” 

Then he found himself wishing that Lady Ethel Pier- 
pont had been in Alice Derwent’s place — wishing that 
some circumstances had compelled him to marry the 
young patrician whose face haunted him. 

“ ‘ What care I how fair she be, 

. If she be not fair for me ?’ ” 

he whispered, but the words did not seem to give him 
much comfort. He almost wished that he had taken 
his mother’s advice, and had not looked at the picture. 

/ Of course it was only love for art; no one could 
imagine that he would be so foolish as to fall in love with 
a picture. 


A HUSBAND CAUTION, 


CHAPTER XVL 
A husband’s caution. 

“I have good news for you, Vivian,” said the Countess 
of Waldrove to her son; “I may say, really, that Provi- 
dence has blessed my efforts. The duke has proposed for 
your sister. She is really very fortunate ; I consider him 
the best match in England. Now, if Lord Rawdon would 
make Gertrude an offer, all anxiety would be off my 
mind.” 

I am glad to hear it,” replied Lord Carsdale ; I think 
Linda likes him very much. ” 

My dear Vivian,” said the countess, with her grand 
air, “it is not a question of Giking.' Linda has been 
brought up too well to allow of any such puerile reason as 
‘liking’ to influence her. The duke is a man who com- 
mands universal respect from his rank and position. ” 

“ Mother,” said Lord Carsdale, “shall you be very angry 
if I ask you a question?” 

“I do not think that you would ask me a question 
which could make me angry,” she replied. 

“Tell me, then, did you love my father when you mar- 
ried him ?” 

‘ ‘ I knew what my position and station required from 
me. Your father was considered an excellent and most 
befitting match for me.” 

“But did you love him?” persisted the young lad. 
“Do tell me, mother.” 

“Perhaps not, as boys and girls understand the word 
love ; but I love him now , Vivian ; and I have come to 


A HUSBAND CAUTION: 


this conclusion, that the love which comes after marriage 
is better than the love that comes before. ” 

“Those are words of wisdom,” he said. “Does love 
come after marriage, mother?” 

- “Most certainly, the best kind. But why this long 
catechism, Vivian? You are not thinking of love?” 

“No,” he replied; and he wondered at the bitter pang 
in his own heart. “No; 1 was thinking of marriage.” 

The countess looked at him with those grand, serene 
eyes of hers. 

“There is a sublime state of things,” she said, “which 
few of us reach — that is where any one falls in love with 
the very person that one ought to love. And marriage and 
love are one ; for instance, if Linda has fallen in love wi^h 
the duke, so much the better. Any one falling in love 
with Lady Ethel Pierpont would be v^ry happy, because 
every earthly advantage is combined in such a love.” 

He turned abruptly away, wondering at the pain he felt. 
What caused it? What did it mean? 

The countess continued : 

“Your father and myself intend to have Linda's mar- 
riage celebrated in all state and ceremony. The first mar- 
riage in a family is always a great event. I used to fancy 
that yours would be the first, Vivian.” 

“So it was,” he thought to himself, with a bitter sigh ; 
“it was indeed the first marriage. Never mind, it was for 
honor’s sake. ” 

“I have been thinking,” continued his lady mother, 
“that Linda must have beautiful bride-maids. I wish — I 
should like to invite the Pierponts.” 

There was a dead pause ; neither mother nor son broke 
it for a few minutes. She was watching him ; he was 
looking gloomily away. 


A HUSBAND^ S CAUTION. 


II7 


Why not ask them, mother?” he said, at last. 

“Lady Pierpont is so particular; she never likes her 
young daughters to visit where there are marriageable 
men.” 

‘ ‘ Then how does she expect the Lady Ethel ever to get 
married ?” 

The countess smiled with calm disdain. 

“ My dear Vivian, I had not imagined you so ignorant 
of the world’s ways. Lady Ethel will be married as royal 
princesses are married — to the most eligible man that 
offers. So far from being taken about to meet eligible 
men, she will be kept out of their way. It must be 
something more than a mere eligible man for Lady Ethel 
Pierpont. ” 

There was no reply; but the gloomy look that deepened 
on her son’s handsome face seemed to give the countess 
much pleasure. What keen, bitter anguish it would have 
caused had she known what brought it there ! 

“ I think,” said Lady Waldrove, “that I shall make the 
experiment. I can hardly imagine that Lady Pierpont 
would refuse me. Of course, if Linda were marrying a 
commoner, it could not be thought of; but marrying a 
duke is quite another thing. Lady Ethel and Gertrude 
could be first bride-maids. How silent you are, Vivian.” 

“I am thinking, mother. I am listening to all you say, 
and thinking of it. I — I hope you will ask them, and 
they will come. I should like to see this beauty of yours, 
just for once, before I go.” 

“What a despondent tone!” laughed the countess. 
“Yes, I think that I shall ask her; it will be one of the 
events of the day — the duke’s marriage. ” 

“ Do you expect that it will be soon?” he asked. 

“Yes; the duke seems very impatient. This is Sep- 


ii8 


A HUSBAND CAUTION 


tember — he wants it to take place in October, if we can 
manage it I think we can. It is a great thing for Linda. 
I shall feel that I have not lived in vain if I live long 
enough to see my children marry well. I shall begin to 
think for you next, Vivian. ” 

Yet, as she spoke, she knew that she had arranged every 
detail of his marriage with the Lady Ethel. She merely 
spoke so to throw him off his guard. His face was pale 
with pain when he turned to her. 

‘‘Do not think about my marriage, mother,” he said; 

I shall not marry.” 

“You must!” she answered, with her cold, clear, piti- 
less voice. “Whether you wish to marry or not, you 
must do so. An estate like this demands sacrifices, and 
they must be made. You will marry quickly enough — 
you are young enough to enjoy freedom now. ” 

“I shall never marry, mother,” he repeated; but Lady 
Waldrove only laughed — she did not pay the least atten- 
tion to his words. 

‘ ‘ Have you been disappointed in love already, Vivian .?” 
she asked. 

He looked up with an air of relief. 

“I have admired many girls,” he said, “and I have 
been sorry for others ; but I never even imagined myself 
in love in all my life. ” 

“There is some comfort in that,” thought the countess 
to herself. “Many young men of his age have gone 
through half a dozen love affairs.” 

She little dreamed that the love affairs of other men had 
been baby-play when compared with the affair of ‘ ‘ honor ” 
of her son. 

The countess sent her invitation, and it was accepted. 
She was delighted, but she said little. Her son’s pre- 


A HUSBAND *S CAUTION. 


II9 

occupied manner made her slightly anxious. What if, 
after all, he should love this beautiful Lady Ethel with a 
mad, deep love, and she should refuse him. The countess 
thought it wiser to say very little, but the mischief was 
already done. 

There were great preparations made for the wedding. 
Roseneath seemed given up to the hands of all kinds of 
people. Lady Waldrove had a beautiful suite of rooms 
entirely refurnished for the Lady Ethel, and Lord Carsdale 
took great interest in the designs. 

“It was only natural,” he said to himself, “that he 
should like to see her ; it would be something like seeing 
the Venus of Milo come to life.” 

In the midst of all these preparations of the choosing 
of carriages and horses, jewels and luxuries of all kinds, 

■ there came to him one morning a little plaintive letter. 
It said : 

“ My Dear Husband : — When shall you return, or when shall I 
hear from you ? It seems so long since I saw you — I am quite sad 
with longing for even one line.” 

The letter stung him with pain sharper than a serpent's 
bite. Dear Heaven, he had forgotten her; he had for- 
gotten this strange tie — this half absurd, half Quixotic 
marriage ; he had forgotten this young wife, who was never 
to be more than a good comrade to him. He sat quite 
still and motionless, with the letter in his hands. 

“Who has been writing to you, Vivian asked Lady 
Gertrude, who had entered the library unnoticed by him. 
“How agonized you look over your letter. Is it a bill 
for cigars 1 What is the matter, Vivian .?” 

“Nothing,” he answered, sharply. 

“Why do you look so distressed? I am sure that you 
have bad news in that letter.” 


120 


A HUSBAND^ S CAUTION, 


“On the contrary, I have no news at all ; it is simply a 
reminder of some promise I made some short time ago.” 

“Who is the letter from?” persisted his sister, really 
alarmed by the pained expression of his face. 

“No one whom you know, Gertie,” he replied. “There 
is nothing the matter really, believe me.” 

But when his sister had quitted the room, he sat down 
at the library table, and wrote : 

“ Dear Ailie : — For the future address me as ‘Dear Vivian,’ not 
as ‘ My Dear Husband.’ I might leave the letters about, and then it 
■would be dangerous. We are very busy preparing for my sister’s 
wedding — it is quite impossible for me to say when I shall see you. 
I hope you are well and happy. Be sure to let me know if you want 
anything. Yours affectionately, V. C.” 

He sealed that letter and took it to the post ; he was 
quite determined that no servants’ gossip should cause 
suspicion. 

How many long, sad hours had Ailie spent in waiting 
for that letter; she had longed for it until she was sick at 
heart. Hettie brought it to her in her own room ; she hid 
it beneath her apron. 

“Now, Miss Ailie, as that fine husband of yours calls 
you, guess what I have for you here?” 

Alice sprang up from her seat, pale and trembling. 

“Oh, Hettie, Hettie! is it a letter?” she cried. 

“Yes; it is a letter. Your fine gentleman husband 
has written it at last ; but I shall not stay to hear what he 
says. The very idea,” she added to herself, “of loving 
any man like that I” 

Alice never heard her. She was in a mad fever of im- 
patience to read this letter. She had waited for it, prayed 
for it, longed for it ; and now it was here. She kissed the 
white envelope with passionate tears; she cried out that 


A JICrSBAND^S CAUTION, 


121 


his hands had touched it, therefore it must be precious. 
.Then she opened it. 

Ah, well, it was only the old, old story — the wasted 
love of woman and the indifference of man. The words 
struck her with mortal pain, yet how carelessly he had 
written them. “Do not call me husband!" They were 
like a death-warrant to her ; to him they meant nothing 
save caution. Alice laid her head on the long-expected 
letter, and wept some of the bitterest tears that she ever 
shed. 

“Never call him husband I — he has forgotten me!" she 
cried. “ Even the little liking he had for me is gone. It 
would be better if I were dead and out pf his way." 

She was roused from her sorrow when Hettie returned ; 
that plump, sensible young person looked with contempt 
on all tears. 

“Are you crying for joy or for sorrow this time?" she 
asked. ‘ ‘ Oh, Alice, you had better have remained single ; 
you have done nothing but cry since you were married." 

She was speaking half in jest, half in earnest. 

“I shall call your husband Blue Beard, Alice, "she said. 
“I am quite sure that all Blue Beards wives put together 
have not cried as much as you have done. You are 
different to me, Alice ; I would not shed one tear for any 
man living." 

‘ * That is a proud boast, Hettie. " 

“And a true one. You are foolish, Alice. Here you 
have plenty of money, plenty of fine dresses, and every- 
thing that your heart can desire, yet you spend the greater 
part of your time shut up here crying. When is Blue 
Beard coming back ?" 

“ I shall not answer you when you speak in that tone, 
Hettie,” said her sister. 


122 


•*G/VE ME LOVE, OR HATE, 


“Well, I will do better. When is Mr. Nelson coming 
back 

“ I do not know, Hettie — he does not say; he has some 
business on hand, and will come when it is over. ” 

What would Alice have thought if she could have 
S known that at that very moment her husband was plan- 

ning to leave England without returning to Rudeswell? 
He did not care to go through the ceremony of bidding 
his young wife farewell. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

“give me love, or hate.” 

Time had seemed very long to Alice. She had been 
educated so far above her station that home, although she 
loved it very dearly, was almost unendurable to her ; her 
father's brusqueness and irritability, her mother’s gentle, 
constant complaint, were easier to bear than Hettie’s loud- 
ness and vulgarity. Rose was seldom at home ; she was 
teaching in a family, who liked her so well that she 
received constant invitations from their house, so that, to 
all intents and purposes, she was alone. The loneliness 
would not have been so bad to bear but that she had 
yielded her whole heart and soul to the passionate love 
that filled it. If she had not worshiped her husband so 
entirely, she might have been a very happy girl ; she had 
money to do what she would with — no one questioned her 
as to her outlay, no one interfered with her; she could 
pursue her favorite studies, she could practice her favorite 


**G/VE ME LOVE, OR HATE:^ 


123 

accomplishments ; she had full and perfect liberty, yet she. 
was most unhappy. Like every other daughter of Eve, 
she longed for what she had not ; she was not content with 
what she had. She wanted her husband’s love, and it 
seemed to her that she might more reasonably long for the 
moon. He was very kind to her, very indulgent, in his 
careless, indifferent fashion ; he would give her anything 
and everything; he was liberal in all his providing for her; 
he had never spoken harshly or unkindly to her ; he had 
always admired her, admired her beautiful face, her grace, 
her abilities; but love — she knew, and the knowledge 
almost killed her, that he had no more idea of loving her 
than he had of killing her. It had never entered her 
thoughts, and the girl wore her heart away with passionate 
longing and wild prayers. Shut up in that gloomy house 
in Cecil street, while the others were all busy, she spent 
whole hours in long, deep, silent thought ; she longed for 
beauty such as women never had, for talent that had never 
been surpassed, for grace such as men worshiped in olden 
times ; surely, if she had all these things he must love her. 
Then she would go to her glass, and, looking at it, wonder 
at the great beauty of the face mirrored there. 

“It is strange that he does not love me," she thought, 
“for I am passing fair." 

She knew, she was quick enough to understand, that 
love such as she felt had never even entered his mind or 
heart. She was very unhappy ; it seemed to her that this 
marriage, which had at first appeared so grand and won- 
derful, had in reality spoiled her life, marred it com- 
pletely. Against her will those words of Shakespeare 
returned to her: “A young man married is a man 
that’s marred." If that was true, what could be said of a 
young woman married, yet never seeing or hearing from 


124 


**G/y£ ME LOVE, OR HATE:^ 


her husband ; Shakespeare might have been puzzled to 
find words for such a case. There were times when she 
was tempted to wish that the marriage had never taken 
place — that he had left her to bear the consequences of 
that one happy day ; it would have been easier to bear 
than this being married and forgotten. She thought, and 
pondered, and puzzled over it. How would it end He 
had been very kind ; he had settled a hundred per annum 
on her poor, hard-working father; he had settled a most 
liberal and handsome income on herself. Then he had 
gone away to his own friends, and, as it appeared, had for- 
gotten her. How would it end? He w^as going abroad 
soon. Would he leave her here? Would summer suns 
rise and set — would flowers bloom and fade — while she 
lived here, wearing out her heart with sighing for him? 
She wrote to him, but her letters were stiff and con- 
strained; she did not dare to express what she felt; her 
whole being was absorbed in her love for him — of that 
love she dare not speak, so that her letters did not give 
her any great amount of comfort. He seldom answered 
them ; when he did so, he wrote kindly, carelessly, indif- 
ferently, never speaking of himself, but always of what she 
wanted. 

“I could not bear it always,” she thought; “it would 
drive me mad. ” 

While the beautiful young wife wore her heart and her 
life away. Lord Carsdale was busily occupied — the weeks 
had flown, as it seemed to him. He had received his 
commission, he had been appointed captain in the Queen’s 
Own Royal Rangers, and the Royal Rangers were ordered 
to Gibraltar in October. 

“You will see your sister married before you go?” said 
Lady Waldrove. “I am much pleased, Vivian.” 


**G/F£ ME LOVE, OR IIATE:^ 


125 


For himself, he was delighted ; he had longed to spend 
a few years at least in the army, and Gibraltar was one of 
the most pleasant of military stations, so that he was alto- 
gether well pleased. His wife — well, of course, she would 
be happy enough ; he would leave her to take her chance. 
She could either remain with the family at Rudeswell or 
have a nice little house of her own. He had quite given 
up all idea of ever telling his parents the story of his mar- 
riage. Since he had been at home he had seen and 
understood so thoroughly the difference between ^ilie’s 
friends and his own that he realized how useless it would 
be to attempt to bring about any common understanding 
between them. While his parents or either of them 
his marriage must be kept a dead secret ; when they liv^d 
no longer, and the knowledge of it could not pain them, 
he might perhaps publish it to the whole world. It never 
occurred to him that in thus acting he was doing his wife 
the least wrong ; he had given her the shelter of a home ; 
he had placed her in easy circumstances ; he had provided 
for her hiends ; he had surrounded her with comfort ; and 
he did not realize that a living, passionate, beating human 
heart wanted more than that. 

“ Give me love, or hate !” his young wife would cry, in 
her wild dreams — “love that burns, hate that kills — any- 
thing rather than this cruel, kind indifference.” 

Lord Carsdale did not think very much about her ; the 
glow of heroism had a little faded, now he had realized 
what he had done ; he kept the whole affair as much out 
of his thoughts as possible ; and then came the wedding, 
with all its pomp, its ceremony, and grandeur. 

The Countess of Waldrove had said that her daughter's 
wedding should be a ceremony not easily forgotten in the 
county, and she was quite right. It never was forgotten ; 


126 


*^G/FE ME LOVE, OR HATE:' 


all England seemed to be looking on. The number cf 
presents exhibited in the great hall was something marvel- 
ous; the fashionable papers were filled with descriptions 
of the bridal costumes, the bridal gifts, the resetting of the 
Claverdon diamonds — in fact, the sensation was as great as 
though the wedding were a royal one ; there was nothing 
else talked about. The leading journals sent down special 
reporters, and the heart of Lucia, Countess of Waldrove, 
beat high with grateful pride. 

The guests invited were to arrive one day before the eve 
of the wedding-day, so that all should be rested and look 
their best. 

Lady Waldrove said nothing to her son, but she knew 
by instinct with what impatience he was awaiting the arrival 
of the Pierponts. 

At the last moment the earl himself was disappointed — 
some important government business prevented him from 
attending. Lady Pierpont and Lady Ethel came alone. 
Lord Carsdale was in the billiard-room when they arrived ; 
he heard the sweep of the carriage round the grand drive ; 
he heard the commotion of the arrival. 

“Who is it.?” he asked of Lady Linda. 

‘ ‘ I should fancy it is the Pierponts, ” she replied. 

His face grew pale with some kind of emotion, he 
hardly knew what — whether it was fear, wonder, awe — he 
did not understand himself. He was to see her at last, 
then, this marvelous beauty, whom his mother thought so 
highly of — he was to see her. He rose hurriedly. 

“We had better go and help my mother to receive 
them,” he said. 

Lady Linda laughed. 

“No; that will not do, Vivian. Great beauties like 
Lady Ethel do not care to be seen in traveling costume — 


**G/FE ME LOVE, OR J7ATE” 


127 


that is understood. You will see her for the first time in 
some marvelous combination of silk and lace that will 
astonish you. Wait until you receive a, state summons.” 

He did wait, but it was in a fever of impatience. He 
could not play. The Duke of Claverdon laid down his 
cue. 

“A man requires his wits about him for billiards, 
Vivian,” he said; “yours are gone.” 

Lady Linda looked up with a quiet smile into her 
brother’s face. 

“I understand,” she said, quietly; “it is of no use, 
Vivian. ” 

He gave up all attempts at playing and went out into 
the grounds, wondering what had come over him. 

“ I shall make a grand soldier,” he said to himself. “I 
may have to face a regiment with drawn swords, and I am 
afraid to face a young girl whose only weapons are her 
beautiful eyes.” 

He waited patiently enough, but the expected summons 
did not come; then his heart sank again, so little did 
he understand the maneuvering of women of the world. 
He thought to himself “evidently Lady Pierpont does not 
include me in her list of eligible men, or she would be in 
a greater hurry to introduce me to her daughter.” 

The dinner-bell rang, and as yet there was no summons 
for him. There was to be a grand dinner-party that even- 
ing at Roseneath ; the bride-maids and visitors all assem- 
bled in full force ; most of the influential country people 
were invited, and dinner was prepared in the grand ban- 
queting-hall. The costly family plate was all laid out — 
there had not for many long years been anything seen like 
it in Roseneath. As Lord Carsdale was crossing the hall 


128 


**Giy£ ME LOVE, OR HATE:^ 


he met the countess, who looked highly pleased and de- 
lighted. 

“Our visitors are all here, Vivian,” she said. “Have 
you seen Lady Pierpont yet ?” 

“No; nor her daughter,” he replied. 

“True; I am forgetting; Lady Pierpont seemed tired 
with her journey, and went at once to her room. Lady 
Ethel went with her. I will introduce you in the drawing- 
room before dinner ; there is the second bell — I am late. 

Lord Carsdale was almost first in the drawing-room ; he 
saw many visitors and had to greet many old friends, but 
the one face he longed to see had not appeared. Suddenly 
the drawing-room opened, and by the sudden stillness that 
came over the groups scattered in that vast saloon he knew 
that she had entered. 

It must have been a sense of foreboding that alarmed 
him. She was there, and yet, much as he had longed to 
see her, he turned away and crossed the room to greet an 
old friend whom he saw there. 

“What a coward I am,” he said. “ I despise myself.” 

So he did, yet he did not find the courage to look at her. 
He felt, rather than knew, that his mother was seeking 
him ; he purposely evaded her ; then wondered at himself 
and what he was doing — wondered at his own weakness. 

“Vivian,” he heard Lady Waldrove say, “I am pur- 
suing you like a will-o’-the wisp ; one moment you are 
here, the next you are gone. I w'ant you — I want to intro- 
duce you to Lady Ethel Pierpont. My dear boy, how very 
pale you look ; are you ill ?” 

His pale face frightened her. He laughed carelessly. 

“Ill, mother? No. What a strange idea. lam per- 
fectly well.” 

“You look pale and strange,” said the countess. 




THE SPELL iVORKS. 


129 

*‘Your fancy, mother.” And then they crossed the 
room together, the mother leading the son to his fate. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

THK SPELL WORKS. 

In one moment a star has fallen from heaven; in 
one moment a nation has been almost destroyed by earth- 
quake; in one moment burning floods of lava have 
buried a beautiful city; in one moment a great tidal wave 
has swept over the land, leaving it desolate; in one 
moment Lord Carsdale fell from the heights of indif- 
ference, where he had lived so long, into the depths 
of love, where life was a torment. He looked up into her 
face when the countess introduced him, and that one look 
was fatal ; he loved her in that one instant with a love that 
was his doom. He did not know it ; he would never have 
owned to it ; he would have been the first to deny it most 
bitterly, and he would have believed in his own denial; 
but all the same, it was most perfectly true that one glance 
had undone him ; and indeed few men looked into that 
brilliant, laughing face with impunity.^ It was simply 
peerlessly perfect. Perfect beauty is often cold and with- 
out expression ; Lady Ethel’s was not. Who. shall paint 
her or tell what she looked like, as she raised her 
dark eyes with a smile and glanced with fearless pride 
at the young lord? He wondered afterward that he 
had not knelt at her feet, and cried out to her that 
her beauty had conquered him. He loved her; he won- 
dered how he had refrained from some expression of that 


130 


THE SPELL WORKS. 


great love. As it was, his lips quivered, and it was 
with difficulty that he commanded his voice. 

“I am delighted. Lady Ethel,” he said, “to have 
the honor. ” 

Then the words seemed to him cold and unmeaning ; it 
was more than an honor — an honor was nothing; this was 
the crowning event of his life, the crowning glory of 
his existence. 

The dark eyes flashed one look into his. Lady Ethel 
said something to him in the sweetest voice that he 
had ever heard ; he could not tell what she said ; the 
whole "world seemed whirling round him; he saw the 
loveliest smile that woman’s lips ever wore. If he could 
have done so, he would have run away from it, but that 
could not be. 

“ I will leave you to entertain Lady Ethel, Vivian,” said 
the countess, moving away; and the sweet, silvery voice 
said, laughingly: 

“I do not think you will find that very difficult; I find 
amusement everywhere and in everything. I suppose I 
am happy because I am young.” 

“ Young people are not always happy,” he replied. “ I 
should say that you are happy because every one loves 
you. ” 

The brilliant young beauty sighed. 

“ Pray, Lord Carsdale,” she said, “use any word in the 
world except ‘ love ’ to me. ” 

“ Do you dislike it.?” he asked. 

“Yes, more than any word in the language,” she 
replied, at the same time thinking to herself that if ever 
she did allow any one to talk to her of love, it should be 
this handsome young lord of Roseneath. 

He talked to her for a few minutes, and then his reeling 


THE SPELL WORKS. 


senses seemed to steady themselves — the beating, throb- 
bing pulse to grow still. Then he looked more calmly at 
the witching loveliness of that most fair face — the face that 
drove men mad with its beauty. He saw that she was fair 
as a lily, with the most delicate, dainty coloring, some- 
thing like a richly-hued peach — a color that seemed to 
vary with every thought, with every word, that was never 
for two minutes alike, and that was faint among the hues 
of heaven. She had dark eyes, proud and sweet, with 
a golden glow in their splendid depths — eyes that haunted 
one, perfect in color, in shape and expression ; the only 
fault that even the most severe of critics could find was 
that the beautiful mouth was a trifle too proud ; there was 
something — a thought too haughty in the curves of the 
lips ; but when she smiled, and the pearly teeth gleamed 
through the scarlet lips, that mouth was almost divine in 
its beauty. He saw then that the dark, rippling hair had 
also a golden light in it. In her evening dress of white 
silk and scarlet flowers she looked more lovely than he 
had thought it was given to any human being to look. 
He had lost himself completely; he had forgotten the 
whole world in the charm of that most beautiful woman’s 
smile. 

He took her down to dinner ; but it was a farce. Plate 
after plate was taken away from before him untouched ; he 
could neither eat nor drink — he could do nothing but 
think of her, look at her, listen to her. The countess, 
among all her engagements, found time to notice that. 

'‘The spell has worked,” she said; “my boy has lost 
his heart. ” 

It was well for her that she did not know how com- 
pletely that spell was in vain. The most merciful part of 
our lives is in the fact that so much is hidden from us. 


132 


THE SPELL WORKS, 


“How happy your sister looks," said Lady Ethel to 
Lord Carsdale. ‘ ‘ If every bride looked as happy and as 
smiling, I should say it spoke well for marriage." 

“She is happy. Lady Ethel; and why should she 
not be?" 

The dark, beautiful eyes, with their proud light, rested 
half sadly for one moment on his face; then, smiling at 
him, she answered : 

‘ ‘ I have not seen very much of the gay world, yet I am 
longing for it — I love it with all my heart ; but I have seen 
four weddings, and at three of them the brides looked 
most miserable, and everybody said what excellent matches 
they were. At the fourth the bride looked very happy, and 
all her friends very sad ; they said she was throwing herself 
away. She was marrying a handsome, noble, generous 
young colonel, who seemed to worship the very ground she 
trod upon. So that you see my ideas of marriage are 
slightly unsettled." 

‘ ‘ I am glad that you think my sister looks happy, ” he 
said. 

“She could not help it; she is marrying a duke, and a 
very nice duke he seems to be. " 

“He is," said Lord Carsdale, “quite as nice as he 
looks.” 

She glanced at his grace of Claverdon with keen atten- 
tion. 

“His face is a trifle too square,” she said, “and I 
do not like the color of his hair. ” 

“ You are difiicult to please. Lady Ethel," he said. 

“Not in a friend,” she replied ; “a husband is quite a 
different matter — to have the same face always before one, 
it should be a handsome one." 

“You like handsome men, Lady Ethel?" he said, feel* 


THE SPELL WORKS. 


ni 

ing secretly pleased, for he would not have been humaln 
not to have felt some pleasure in his own splendid 
physique just then. 

“1 have my own idea of what is handsome,” she 
replied, ‘ ‘ and it seldom agrees with the ideas of others. ” 

‘^A duke must always be handsome, because he is 
a duke, I suppose, he said. 

‘ ‘ That does not follow. The handsomest man I have 
ever seen was a private soldier in the Royal Dragoons — a 
tall, fair Saxon. ” 

There was a gleam of malice in the emphasis she placed 
on the word “fair.” He glanced at her quickly. 

“You admire fair people,” he said. “My mother has 
a firm conviction that fair complexions and weak minds go 
together. ” 

“I have seen some little weakness even in dark people,” 
said Lady Ethel. “Tell me. Lord Carsdale, who is the 
gentleman talking to your other sister. Lady Gertrude 

“That is Lord Rawdon. Do you admire him.?” he 
added, quickly. 

Lady Ethel gave him an amused glance. She had 
quickly fathomed his jealousy, and delighted in it. 

“Lord Rawdon seems to admire your sister, which 
is more to the purpose, ” she answered, lightly. 

Lady Ethel was very much inclined to like Lord Cars- 
dale; he was handsome, bright, and intelligent; besides 
which there was something in his face that piqued her — 
that ‘made her think about him. She could not tell 
exactly what it was — a reserve — it was the face of one, she 
fancied, who had a secret to keep. Then what nonsense 
it was to think of such a thing. What secret could 
he have? He was young — not more than twenty-one, she 
had heard Lady Linda say. Altogether, Lady Ethel liked 


THE SPELL WORKS. 


th(ie young lord very much better than she had ever 
liked any one yet, and that was saying a great deal, for her 
lovers had been legion. 

After dinner Lord Carsdale found it almost impossible to 
talk to her. She was surrounded wdth admirers ; she held 
quite a little court, and she was queen. He looked 
with longing eyes at every one who went near her; 
he could do nothing but watch her ; she was so imperially 
fair, so haughty even in her grace, so graceful even in her 
pride, he could look at no one else. 

It was long before he could find an opportunity of 
speaking to her ; then he said : 

‘^Lady Ethel, I have been longing to speak to you; 
you are so surrounded with adorers I have no chance. '' 

“I do not imagine that every one adores me who 
speaks to me,’" she said, laughingly; “and. Lord Cars- 
dale, do you know the way to secure a place when you 
want one?” 

“No,” he replied. 

“Take it, whether any one else has it or not,” said the 
beauty, as she turned away. And Lord Carsdale stood 
thinking of her words. 

“I will take it another time,” he said, “no matter who 
has to make way for me.” 

And he kept his word. 

The day of the wedding was a fine one — so fine that 
Lady Waldrove thought in her own mind it had been 
on purpose for her. The wedding itself was a perfect suc- 
cess; the sun shone with all the brightness and warmth of 
summer ; the sky was clear and blue ; the birds sang ; the 
whole country had been searched for flowers; the whole 
country seemed in a state of commotion. Lady Linda 
made a very beautiful bride; the bride-maids were ex- 


THE SPELL WORKS. 


135 

quisitely dressed, but none equaled the fair, peerless Lady 
Ethel. 

The ceremony was a perfect success — there was not one 
single drawback. Lady Waldrove looked down the long 
line of noble guests with a heart full of satisfied pride and 
ambition. If Lord Rawdon would only propose to Lady 
Gertrude, and Vivian marry Lady Ethel, she would be, 
she thought, the proudest, happiest woman in the world. 

The dejeuner was a scene to be remembered. It was 
doubly delightful to Lord Carsdale, because he sat next to 
Lady Ethel ; it was not the place appointed for him — 
Lady Waldrove was far too diplomatic for such straight- 
forward hints. The seat was intended for Sir Harry Fullie, 
and the brilliant belle looked up with a smile as Lord 
Carsdale took it. 

“That is Sir Harry’s place, Lord Carsdale,” she said. 

“Is it. Lady Ethel? You see, I have followed your 
advice; I have taken the place I wanted, no matter 
who else has claim to it.” 

It was a fatal thing for him. Long before that breakfast 
was over he said to himself that he was hopelessly in love 
with this beautiful young queen ; that out of all the world 
s^^ 4vas the one woman for him ; that he loved her 
with the deepest, maddest passion man ever had for 
woman yet, and that he must leave her — leave her before 
harm came of his mad love. 

Then he saw what he had done ; he had bound himself 
for life; he had married a beautiful, untaught girl, who 
could never be a wife for him ; he had married, and 
ruined, and blighted his whole life, and there was nothing 
left for him. He saw it all now. But for this rash, 
foolish marriage, he might have wooed and perhaps have 


A DREAM BY THE SEA. 


136 

won the peerless young beauty, who seemed disposed, in 
her proud fashion, to smile on him. 

He tried to comfort himself with the old formula — it 
was for honor’s sake ; but the words fell without meaning 
this time, and he began to think he had not known what 
honor was. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

A DREAM BY THE SEA. 

The wedding was over ; the Duke and Duchess of Claver- 
don had taken their departure for Hever Court, where the 
honeymoon was to be spent, and many of the guests were 
preparing for departure. Lady Pierpont, after much press- 
ing, had consented to stay until the Friday following ; she 
had made a great favor of it 

We ought to be at Steele Castle, ” she said ; “but since 
you are so very kind. Lady Waldrove, and dear Ethel is 
enjoying herself so much, I think we will remain ; but we 
must positively go on Friday.” — 

They had been so happy together — the man who had 
married so imprudently, and the beautiful belle for whom 
marriage was expected to do so much. It had been a 
summer idyl, a summer poem ; they had lingered together 
in the sweet, fragrant gloaming, together they had listened 
to the chanting of the star-lit sea ; they had ridden through 
green-shaded lanes, and, sending the horses home, they 
lingered on the mossy banks and in the green meadows; 
they had walked through the cool, shaded depths of the 


A DREAM BY THE SEA. 


137 


green woods, listening to the bird’s song, happy with a 
deep, silent happiness neither of them quite understood. 
Lady Ethel raised her beautiful face to his one morning, 
as she said : 

I cannot imagine why it is, but this summer seems to 
me the fairest I have seen yet. I never remember the sun- 
shine so blight, or the flowers so sweet.’’ 

He drank in the beauty and witchery of those lovely 
eyes before he answered. 

“I can say just the same thing,” he replied; “I never 
remember a summer half so fair.” 

Together they lingered in the beautiful conservatories, 
in the flower-gardens, in the long picture-galleries, and the 
magnificent saloons ; together they sang and danced — had 
talked until they knew each other’s thoughts and ideas 
better than though they had lived for years together. 

He had begun to realize what he was doing — to know 
that the sweet witchery, the glamour falling over him, was 
all love — to realize that he lived only in her presence, and 
that without her life was all one great, terrible blank — to 
realize that he loved her with the one great love, the one 
great passion of his life, before which all others paled and 
grew dim. Not at first ; at first her beauty struck him as 
the beauty of woman had never done before — he thought 
her the loveliest and fairest, he admired her as he would 
have done the Venus of Milo, or the portrait of Beatrice 
Cenci ; she was a new revelation of beauty to him. He 
fell, without knowing it, from that state of . blind worship 
into the deepest pit passion ever digs for man. He under- 
stood it at last when a feeling of despair came over him, 
and he said to himself that he would give his very life to 
kiss her once, even should he then die. It was when that 
thought came over him that he realized for the first time 


A DREAM BY THE SEA. 


138 

how he loved her — how madly, how blindly, how deeply 
he loved her. He had never trembled at a woman’s soft 
touch before; now, if his hand touch :d hers, if her dress 
touched him in passing:, if, as he bent over her to read or 
to sing, the perfume from her hair or her dress reached 
him, he trembled like a strong tree swaying in a storm. 

Then he knew what he had done, and how his life was 
ruined and blighted by that one false notion of honor. 
He did not say to himself this time that it was for honor’s 
sake ; that idea had quite ceased to comfort him. 

He loved her, and the next thing was to fly far from 
her — to go where the witchery of her face would never set 
his heart on fire again ; to go where her voice would never 
reach him. It would be better, he thought, to die than 
to linger here. 

He had no fear for her — she laughed, talked, danced, 
jested, and sang; her beautiful face was always bright; 
the delicate, haughty lips uttered repartees and witticisms 
that amused all who heard them ; the dark, luminous eyes 
were filled with the poetry of deep thought. She was so 
worshiped, so sought after, so beloved — there was no fear 
for her. He remembered how his mother had warned 
him not to look on her beauty with longing eyes, for it 
could never be his. He was doing her no injury; she, 
who had made so many brilliant conquests, she would 
never care about him. 

As for himself— well, they allowed a condemned criminal 
even to linger for a few days ; they allowed a man who was 
to die on the morrow to look at the sun while he could ; 
they allowed a dying man to take a last look at the faces 
he loved. So why should he not linger by her side until 
the Friday came on which she was to leave? It would not 
hurt her, and it was his last gleam of happiness ; then he 


A DREAM BY THE SEA. 


139 


would go away to Gibraltar, perhaps die there. What 
would it matter? Life was no longer sweet for him since 
it did not hold Lady Ethel. 

He drank his cup of poison slowly, surely, knowing it 
was poison — knowing that it would destroy him, yet un- 
able to put down the fatal cup, which, when once tasted, 
clings to the lips. He counted the hours until the noon 
of Friday, as men count the hours before execution. He 
was so absorbed in his love, so completely possessed by 
the idea that, even had he been free, her beauty was not 
for him, that he never dreamed of danger for her. They 
had walked down to the shore one beautiful evening, 
when the wind was still, and the stars shining on the sea. 
They stood together on the sands while the waves came 
rolling' in, and broke into a thousand star-lit ripples at 
their feet. He stooped and raised some of the salt water 
in his hand. ■v 

wonder,” he said, “if you will think of me when 
you watch the sea?” 

“Certainly I shall,” she replied. “You do not sup- 
pose that I forget my friends so easily, do you ?” 

“Am I your friend. Lady Ethel? Ah! you have so 
many friends. The moon shines on many brooks; the 
brooks see but one moon. You are the moon, and I am 
only one of the brooks. ” 

She laughed the gay, rippling laugh that stirred hi& 
pulses like sweet wine. 

“I think,” she replied, “that you are a very favored 
brook. It seems to me that I shine, as you express it, a 
great deal upon you. ” 

“Yes; but the light will soon be withdrawn,” he said, 


140 


A DREAM BY THE SEA. 


She looked up at him, her eyes filled with love and 
laughter. She liked him exceedingly. 

‘"Do you not know what to do if you want the light?’" 
she asked. “You must follow it.” 

“But its rays are shifting, Lady Ethel; they never fall 
long in the same place. ” 

“You cannot tell that, Lord Carsdale,” she replied ; and 
she thought to herself how strange it was — she had never 
shown so much kindness to any man before, and yet he 
did not seem to understand it. 

“I have shown him so many marks of favor,” she 
thought to herself, “and yet he does not seem to know it.” 

“I shall never see the sea, either in sunlight or in 
moonlight,” he continued, “without thinking of you; 
and when the stars shine on it, as they are shining now, I 
shall see your face with that same smile on it, the same 
light in your eyes, the wave of your hair — I shall see you, 
and call you in my thoughts ‘ My dream by the sea. ' ” 

“Shall I always be a dream, then?” she asked. “You 
speak, Lord Carsdale, as though you were going to bid me 
an eternal farewell.” 

“So I am,” he thought to himself; to her he said 
simply, “1 am going to Gibraltar, as you know. Lady 
Ethel.” 

“You are going because you choose to go,” she said; 
“you can do just as you like. If you prefer to remain in, 
England, you can remain. Besides, Gibraltar is not very 
distant, and you can come home when you like.” 

There were a few minutes of dead silence, while the 
tide rippled in slowly and the stars gleamed in the water. 
In that moment, had he been free, he would have asked 
her to marry him, and she would have consented ; but the 
waves rippled on, the stars shone, the wind whispered. 


A DREAM BY THE SEA. 


141 

and still he spoke no word. That silence became painful 
at last; then he tried to break the spell — only Heaven 
knew what the effort cost him. 

“ I shall come back in the course of years, I suppose,” 
he said, trying to speak lightly; “but the years bring 
great changes. You, for instance. Lady Ethel, now you 
are free from all ties, then you will be the wife of some 
grand earl or duke, one of the first ladies in the land ; and 
you will have forgotten that we ever stood together to 
watch the stars shining on the sea.” 

“ Do you wish me to remember it. Lord Carsdale?” she 
asked. 

He bit his lips and clenched his hands to hold down the 
hot, passionate words that seemed to spring from his heart 
to his lips; he did not know what answer to make her; 
he was at a stand-still, so remained silent 

“Do you not think,” she continued, “that you are 
begging the question ?” 

‘ ‘ Perhaps I am, ” he said, gravely. 

“You have no more right to suppose that I shall have 
married a duke or an earl than I have to think that you 
will have married a duchess or a countess.” 

“I am quite sure I shall not have done that,” he 
replied. 

“ Then why do you say I shall have done it?” 

Then he heard plainly the annoyance in her voice, and 
looking into her beautiful face, he saw by the light of the 
stars that it was pale and shadowed with something like 
pain. She spoke as though he had vexed her. 

“ I mean nothing more than this, Lady Ethel, that you 
are so courted, so beautiful, so beloved, you are sure to 
marry while I am away; it is not likely that you will 
remain single all that time.” 


142 


A DREAM BY THE SEA. 


^*0h, that is what you mean, Lord Carsdale. May I 
ask if you suppose that I am in any great hurry to marry?” 

She spoke so coldly, so proudly, that he looked at her 
in wonder. 

“Lady Ethel,” he said, “I am offending you, I am 
displeasing you, though I cannot for the whole world tell 
why. I am so sorry — forgive me. I have unintentionally 
done wrong. You know that I would rather die than dis- 
please you.” 

“I know nothing of the kind,” said the petulant young 
beauty; “I only know what is quite true, that men are 
the most stupid creatures in creation. I am sorry to say 
anything rude, but it is really true. ” 

He looked so astounded at this sudden attack, that 
Lady Ethel laughed in spite of herself ; and looking up 
at the lovely face, he saw that the dark eyes were filled 
with tears. 

“ Lady Ethel,” he cried, “you are an enigma to me I” 

“Am I? It is not worth while trying to solve me, 
then.” 

He took her hand in his; it was the only time, and 
the touch of that white, soft hand remained with him for 
years. 

“ Lady Ethel,” he said, “I feel that in your presence I 
am but as a slave before a queen. 1 look up to the 
heights on which you stand, and my eyes are dazzled ; you 
are as far above me as the stars are. I am at a loss what 
to say to you, but I can see that I have most unfortunately 
offended you, and I grieve for it. Forgive me. It is the 
last time we shall ever watch the stars shining on the sea 
together; do not let us quarrel.” 

When he first began to speak her face had flushed, then 
had grown quite pale ; now it grew paler still. 


LOr£ AND REGRET. 


143 

“We are not likely to quarrel, Lord Carsdale; you have 
said nothing to offend me.” 

“Then why do you call men stupid?” he asked. 

“Oh, because they are so,” she replied. “And now. 
Lord Carsdale, the last gleam of light has died cn the 
waters ; we must go home.” 


, 1 \ 

CHAPTER XX. ^ 

LOVE AND REGRET. 

“Good-by, Lady Ethel,” said the young lord, as he 
held out his hand to her in farewell. “We will say good- 
by here ; before others I could not say it.” 

His face paled, his lips quivered, his voice was full of 
pain ; he saw the expression of wonder in her face — an 
expression that asked ; “If you feel leaving me so acutely, 
why go ?” Her eyes asked the question as plainly as eyes 
could speak, and he read it there. 

“It cannot matter much where we say good-by,” she 
said ; “ it means about the same thing in every case.” 

How he longed to stand still just where they were, on 
the shore of that star-lit sea, and tell her the story of his 
life — tell her of the rash, hot-headed impulse that had led 
him to marriage — the impulse that he had believed so 
firmly to be honor. How he longed to tell her that this 
wife of his was beautiful and good, yet that while he lived 
he could not do more than like her; but for her, the 
woman he loved but could never marry, he had a wild, 
passionate worship that would end only with his life. He 


144 


LOy£ AND REGRET. 


longed to tell her how even the picture of her face had taken 
possession of him as nothing else ever had dene — how he 
had loved it before even he knew who it was, and how 
since then he had loved her more and more. He longed 
to say it, but he knew that not one word of it must pass 
his lips, and he stood before her mute and dumb — mute, 
when he would have given his life to have spoken — dumb, 
because honor sealed his lips. He did not love his wife — 
he never had loved her — he never dreamed of so doing; 
but he was too honorable to think even of making love to 
another woman. Lady Ethel walked on proudly ; if he 
would not understand, he would not, and there was an 
end of it. She had said quite enough — she had given 
him more encouragement in that one quarter of an hour 
than she had given to all other admirers, and it had been 
given in vain. No one wondered that Lady Ethel Pier- 
pont, the proudest girl in England, turned haughtily 
away. She knew men who would have given their lives 
for such smiles and such words as she had lavished on this 
young lord. 

“Good-by to the beautiful sea,” he said; “I shall never 
hear the ripple of sea in other lands without thinking of 
this.” 

She deigned to give him no answer, but turned away 
without one word. They walked across the firm, golden 
sands until the last glimmer of sea was lost in the distance. 
Lady Ethel drew her lace shawl more closely around her 
shoulders. 

“You are cold,” said Lord Carsdale, quickly. 

“I am not cold, or warm, or anything else, except 
anxious to be at home. You must not tempt me to take 
any more star-lit walks. What will my mother say if she 
finds it out?” 


LOVE AND REGRET. 


H5 

‘*She would say that you had done a very wise thing to 
leave those w^arm rooms for the freshest sea breeze that 
ever blew. There is no fear that I shall tempt you again. 
Lady Ethel, you forget how soon we shall be parted.” 

“If I forget it is my own fault — you never weary of 
reminding me, Lord Carsdale. ” 

For that ramble down to the star-lit sea had been Lord 
Carsdale’s own suggestion. Roseneath was full of visitors ; 
they had begun dancing, and every one was engaged ; he 
had sought Lady Ethel for a dance, and then, as they went 
through the long corridor, he said to her : 

“It is such a lovely night, I have a great longing to see 
the stars shining on the sea.” 

Believing that he was merely seeking an opportunity of 
saying that which she was quite willing to hear. Lady Ethel 
replied : 

‘ ‘ So have I. ” 

“Do you think,” he asked, “that you dare venture? 
We have only to cross the lawn and go through the cop- 
pice; we should be on the shore in five minutes. Will 
you go ?” 

He spoke so eagerly, his handsome face all on fire, his 
eyes flashing with the eager, impetuous desire to have her 
all to himself, if only for a few minutes. She looked at 
him quickly. 

“There is nothing much to fear,” she replied. “If we 
both have a fancy for seeing the stars shining on the water, 
who is to contradict us? Yet, all the same. Lord Cars- 
dale, I would rather that no one knew.” 

He found a shawl, and wrapping it round her beautiful 
white arms and shoulders, wondering as he did so at their 
perfection of shape and color, they had gone off to the sea 
together. The result was annoyance to Lady Ethel and 


146 


LOVE AND REGRET. 


increased pain to Lord Carsdale. They were back again 
now on the lawn, and Lady Ethel saw there was no further 
cause for fear ; others were there under the star-light, some 
standing round the fountains, others sitting where the lime 
blossoms fell in the bright summer weather. She stopped 
when she saw that. 

“There are others as imprudent as ourselves," she said. 

And Lord Carsdale added : 

“Without the same excuse." 

She turned to him quite impatiently. 

“What excuse do you mean? What excuse had we?" 

He was humble as a child to her. 

“We wanted to say farewell, and they have no such 
word to say.” 

The next moment she had taken her little white hand 
from his arm, and had entered the house, leaving him 
alone. 

“lam always offending her," he thought. “Now what 
have I done?" 

He could not understand it, because he always remem- 
bered what his mother had said — that her beauty was not 
for him ; and of all things, the last that he imagined was 
that this proud patrician was in love with him. He fol- 
lowed her into the bail-room ; he saw her resplendent in 
her loveliness, her graceful figure draped in white silk and 
costly lace, diamonds gleaming in her dark hair and on 
her white breast; he watched the play of those lovely 
features, the light in her dark eyes, and he went mad with 
love and regret. Then he spoke to her, and she affected 
not to hear or understand him ; she declined to dance 
with him. Then she dropped a beautiful spray of steph- 
onatis, and he picked it up ; he took it to her. 

^'This has fallen fron^ your bouquet, I^ady Ethel," he 


LOVE AND REGRET. 


147 


said aloud ; then, losing all his self-control, as her beauti- 
ful eyes were raised with their soft reproach to his, he 
added : “If you are not kinder to me, and if you refuse 
to speak to me, I will shoot myself.” 

Then in one moment he knew that he had done wrong. 

“Forgive me. Lady Ethel; when I look at you I lose 
my reason — I go mad.” 

“He does love me,” she thought, with some self- 
reproach. “I need not have been so unkind to him ; he 
loves me, and is afraid to say so.” 

When the young people were tired of dancing. Lady 
Waldrove proposed music. Miss Lyndale, a brunette of 
great pretentions, sang ; Lady Leicester played a march of 
her own composition ; then the countess requested Lady 
Ethel to sing. She had a marvelous voice, beautiful as 
herself — soft, low, dreamy, rich, and full of sweetest music. 

“ I do not know that I can think of any song which 
pleases me ju?t at this moment,” she replied. 

“Sing my favorite,” cried Miss Lyndale. “Faint heart 
ne'er won fair lady. ” 

Lady Ethel's face flushed with delight — it was the very 
thing. 

She sat down to the piano and sang with greater spirit 
and energy than she had ever sung before. She saw Lord 
Carsdale come up to the piano, and, though she never 
looked once in his direction, she felt that his eyes lingered 
on her face. She maliciously added a few words to her 
song. 

The Earl Waldrove came up to her. 

“ Lady Ethel, what is your song about, tell me?” 

Knowing still that those eyes were fixed on her, yet 
never even glancing in his direction, she replied : 

“I will tell you the story, Lord Waldrove; it is very 


148 


ZOFE AND REGRET. 


instructive : A poor knight — rich, you understand, in 
everything but money — falls in love with a beautiful heir- 
ess ; of course he does not tell his love, though she gives 
him every opportunity; she shows him plainly enough 
that she loves him, but he cannot see it. She stoops from 
her high estate almost to woo him, but he thinks the 
whole world lies between them, and never dreams that the 
sweet lady loves him.” 

‘‘Well,” said the earl, “I am greatly interested. Lady 
Ethel. How does it go on .?” 

She looked up at him with a laughing face. 

“I cannot tell you the end of it,” she replied. “To 
tell the truth. Lord Waldrove, I have not decided how it 
shall end. The song is my own. ” 

“The song is very beautiful — it must end beautifully,” 
said the earl. 

“ I will think about it. Perhaps the Faint Heart will 
ride away without daring to raise his eyes to the star of his 
love; then she must die broken-hearted, and he will be 
killed in the wars.” 

“No,” said the earl; “let us have a happier ending 
than that. Let the fair Lady go to him and tell him 
frankly that his wooing will not be in vain, then finish 
with the chime of marriage bells.” 

“But that would not be proper. Lord Waldrove,” she 
replied, laughingly. “None of the matrons in Mayfair 
would allow their daughters to sing such a song ; besides 
which, I am not quite sure he deserves it. If he was so 
blind and devoid of intelligence as not to find out that the 
lady loved him, he did not deserve her.” 

“Well, you are the best judge,” said the earl, rising. 
“I must leave it to you. For my own part, I like happy 
endings to all love affairs. ” 


LOVE AND REGRET, 


149 


The next moment, pale as death, with a strange quiver 
on his lips and a strange trembling in his strong frame, 
Lord Carsdale stood before her. When she saw him her 
eyes dropped; not once did she raise them to his; she 
toyed with the jeweled handle of her fan. 

“Lady Ethel,” he said, in a low voice, “tell me, what 
does that song mean ?” 

“I cannot undertake to explain my songs to every 
one,” she replied, demurely. “Of course to Lord Wal- 
drove one refuses nothing.” 

“Tell me,” he repeated, vehemently, “what does it 
mean ?” 

She rose from her seat and made him a most bewitching 
courtesy. 

“You will have plenty of time to think it over on the 
Rock of Gibraltar,” she said, with a low laugh. 

“Lady Ethel, do not be cruel, do not be hard. You 
know ” 

Then he stopped abruptly. In honor, what could he 
say .? Nothing of love, that was certain. 

“ I know what?” she asked. “ Make haste. Lord Cars- 
dale — mamma is waiting for me ; she has been looking at 
me ever so long with a look that means it is time for me 
to be gone. Make haste — what do I know ?” 

“I forget. 1 know nothing myself, except that I be- 
lieve I am going mad. ” 

“Yes,” said Lady Ethel ; “you are quite right — I really 
believe that you are.” 

“ Tell me what that song means,” he repeated. 

She raised her brilliant face to his, bright to the very 
last, and she would not let him see her pain. 

“If you want to know, you will have to follow me to 


150 


AJV ANXIOUS MOTHER. 


Paris — I have no time to tell you here. Good-night and 
good-by, Lord Carsdale.” 

“Good-night and good-by, Lady Ethel,” he repeated, 
mechanically. 

She was gone before he could say another word, leaving 
him with something that was not a prayer on his lips. 

“Faint heart!” he repeated to himself. “Does she 
think I am faint of heart } I wish she knew one-tenth of 
my strength.” 

And so the night on which the stars had shone so 
•brightly set in darkness for him. 


CHAPTER XXL 

AN ANXIOUS MOTHER. 

“Ethel,” said Lady Pierpont, that evening, “send away 
your maid — I want to talk to you.” 

Lady Ethel sighed ; the one dread of her life was the 
“ little talks” that Lady Pierpont often extended into hours 
of lecture. 

When the jewels were taken from her shining hair, and 
the rich dress of silk was thrown aside, the maid brought 
out a beautiful wrapper of rose-colored cashmere richly 
embroidered, a tiny pair of rose satin slippers for the little 
feet, and Lady Ethel lay back with a sigh of relief. 

“You may go,” she said to her maid; and, as the girl 
left the room, Lady Pierpont entered it. 

“I am very tired, mamma,” said the girl. “I know 
quite well that you have a lecture for me. You will be as 
quick as you can, will you not?” 


AN ANXIOUS MOTHER. 


Lady Pierpont looked at that most lovely face. The 
delicate rose-bloom was iri some slight degree lessened; 
the fine eyes had a tired, weary expression. Lady Pier- 
pont was on the alert in a moment; her daughter’s beauty 
was the one great pride of her life — nothing must touch 
that. 

“You do look tired, my dear; you must be careful of 
yourself. I have only come to ask you a question, and to 
give you a little advice.” 

“I am so tired of advice, mamma dear. I have had 
nothing but advice since I was ten years old,” said the 
beauty, resignedly. 

“Well, my dear, you have profited by it, I am sure,” 
said Lady Pierpont. “I want to ask you, Ethel, is there 
anything between you and Lord Carsdale.?” 

The beautifctl, proud face flushed, then grew pale as 
death. 

“No, mamma, there is not,” she replied, haughtily. 

“Tell me, Ethel, has Lord Carsdale said anything to 
you — has he made an offer?” 

“No, mamma, he has not.” 

“What were you talking about all this evening? I 
knew of your ramble on the shore.” 

“We talked about riddles — and Gibraltar,” she replied. 

“Riddles!” repeated Lady Pierpont; “that was a 
strange theme. Then he has not what is commonly called 
made love to you, Ethel?” 

“ No, he has not, indeed,” she replied, earnestly. 

“ That seems strange, too, for Lady Waldrove was talk- 
ing to me this evening, and she said that she had never 
seen one creature so desperately in love with another 
as Lord Carsdale is with 3'ou. ” 

The beauty laughed; but if Lady Pierpont had been 


152 


AN ANXIOUS MOTHER. 


keener, she would have known that laugh was full of 
bitterness and pain. 

“ He takes very good care not to show it, mamma,” she 
replied ; and Lady Pierpont looked, as she felt, surprised. 

“There I cannot agree with you, Ethel; indeed, it is 
of that I have come to speak to you. Lord Carsdale 
seems to be very much in love with you; he follows you 
everywhere; he is like your shadow; indeed, he almost 
seems to lose his reason when you are near; but that 
is very natural, you are so beautiful, my dear. I am sure 
that Lord Carsdale loves you ; but you, perhaps, have not 
given him any encouragement.” 

Her face burned as she remembered all the encourage- 
ment she had given him. 

“He has not presented himself to me in the character 
of a lover, mamma,” she said, evasively. 

“You may rely upon it he will do so, my dear; 
and now we come to what I wanted to say. Of course 
you might do better. With your beauty you might be 
Duchess of Mount Severne, as I am sure the duke wor- 
ships you ; you might be Grand Duchess of Hollenstein ; 
but both your papa and myself will fully consent to your 
being Lord Carsdale's wife. You will be Countess of 
Waldrove in the course of time, and it is one of the finest 
estates and oldest titles in England ; besides which I really 
like Lord Carsdale ; he is very handsome, he is good form, 
he is a gentleman in every sense of the word. ” 

“There is one thing, mamma — I cannot be Lady Cars- 
dale unless I am asked. ” 

“Certainly not, my dear; but you are sure to be asked 
— one look from you seems sufficient. I tell you that 
Lord Carsdale is desperately in love with you ; his mother 
ought to know, and she says the same thing.” 


ANXIOUS MOTHER. 


153 


“We will talk about it, mamma, when the offer is 
made ; and now, thank you for your advice ; I am so 
tired, dear.” 

“I should like to know, Ethel, what you yourself think 
of Lord Carsdale?” asked Lady Pierpont, anxiously. 

Her daughter smiled satirically, as she answered : 

“I have been too carefully brought up, mamma, even 
to think of liking any one who has not declared some- 
thing more than a liking for me.” 

Lady Pierpont kissed her, and told her she was a 
corrfort. 

“ You really are a comfort to me, Ethel,” she said. 
“ When I hear other mothers talking about their children, 
deploring their obstinacy, I am thankful that I have a 
sweet, docile daughter.” 

And with those pleasant words. Lady Pierpont went 
away slightly puzzled. Certainly Lord Carsdale appeared 
to love her daughter ; his mother had said it. It seemed 
strange that he should not have been in a greater hurry to 
make that brilliant prize his own. 

Lady Ethel rose from her seat with a great sigh. She 
stretched out those fair, white arms ; then they fell list- 
lessly by her side. 

“I cannot understand it,” she said to herself. “I 
thought he loved me. If ever love shone in a man’s face, 
or spoke in his voice, it does in his ; if ever a man looked 
as though his whole soul had left him and lay at my feet, 
Lord Carsdale looks so. I could swear that he loves me ; 
he trembles like a child before me, and yet says nothing. 
My heart beats and my face burns when I remember what 
encouragement I have given him. I have almost told him 
that I care for him, yet he either does not or will not 


154 


AN ANXIOUS MOTHER. 


understand. I was ashamed of myself when I sang that 
song; why, even a baby would have understood me.” 

Her beautiful eyes filled with tears. 

“So many people have loved me,” she thought. “I 
have never cared for any one except him. I — I love him,” 
she added ; “I love him, and I will remain unmarried all 
my life; I will marry no one but him. The Duke of 
Mount Severne is as nothing compared to him. Others 
may think as they will, I maintain that Lord Carsdale is 
the handsomest man in England. I wonder why he does 
not love me, or, if he does, why cannot he say so.?” 

They went the following morning ; and as Lady Wal- 
drove stood at the window kissing her hand to the occu- 
pants of the carriage, she said : 

“There goes the loveliest and the nicest girl in Eng- 
land.” 

Lady Gertrude, who stood by her mother’s side, said : 

'“Thank you, mamma.” 

The countess turned to her quickly. 

“I mean no disparagement to you, my dear, but she is 
a most beautiful girl. I am sorry to lose her. ” 

“So am I, "said Lady Gertrude; “and, mamma, I am 
quite sure that Vivian is most desperately in love with her. 
I saw tears in his eyes last night. ” 

“ Has she refused him ?” asked Lady Waldrove, quickly. 

“ I do not know ; he looks very miserable.” 

“She must have refused him, then,” thought Lady 
Waldrove, “and all my beautifully arranged scheme is at 
an end.” 

She could not rest until she had seen her son ; then she 
went to him. 

“Vivian, you are looking very unhappy this morning; 
tell me, has Lady Ethel refused you ?” 


AN ANXIOUS MOTHER. 


155 


“Refused me what, mother?" he said, quickly. 

“Refused to be your wife, dear," said the countess, 
meekly. 

“No; she could not refuse me, for the simple reason 
that I have never asked her," he answered, abruptly. 

And his lady mother smiled. All, then, was going on 
well. 

“I should like to give you a hint, Vivian," she said, 
“ if you will not be offended." 

“You cannot offend me, mother," he replied, gently. 
“Hint, or speak straightforwardly, as you like." 

“ I think, then, my dear Vivian," she said — “at least I 
am sure, that Lady Ethel likes you." 

His face grew pale as death,, with great drops of anguish 
on his brow. 

“Likes me, mother? — that beautiful, innocent girl! 
What do you mean ?" 

“ I mean just what I say," replied the countess, slowly. 
“Lady Ethel likes you so well that if you ask her to be 
your wife she will not refuse." 

“You told me, mother, that her beauty was not for 
me," he s.iid, in a voice of bitter anguish. 

*‘And I believed so-; Lady Pierpont could with justice 
look much higher; but I repeat that she likes you, Vivian, 
well enough to be your wife if you ask her." 

She might well wonder. He turned abruptly away, 
with a deep groan. He walked rapidly across the cor- 
ridor out of sight, his mother watching him, as she said to 
herself : 

“ Poor boy 1 he has the love fever, and no mistake." 

Lord Carsdale went out of the house, longing to be 
somewhere alone, where he could give free vent to the 
anger, the annoyance, the vexation, the regret, and the 


156 


AN ANXIOUS MOTHER. 


love that was consuming him. He walked quickly until 
he reached the sea-shore — the worst place he could have 
chosen, for it seemed to him that she stood there still, the 
lovely face so tender and fair in the starlight. 

Could it be true that she cared for him? — she, the 
proud, peerless Lady Ethel, on whose smile princes waited 
— she, who might wed with the noblest in the land — she 
to care for him ! Was it true ? He lay down on the sand 
and thought over all the incidents of their friendship. 
Suddenly her annoyance that he could not understand her 
song, that he did not know the meaning of it, came before 
him — Faint heart never won fair lady.” She had thought 
him faint-hearted, then, because he had not dared to woo 
her. She had, in her graceful fashion, been willing to 
encourage him, and she must have thought him a laggard 
in love, indeed. 

Now he understood why she would not tell the earl, his 
father, how the song ended. 

“Perhaps the ‘faint heart’ rode away without telling 
his love,” she had said. He must have been more than 
blind, he must have been stupid, not to have uriderstood 
it. That very word recalled the last scene on the shore 
most forcibly to him. “ Men are so stupid,” Lady Ethel 
had said. 

Well might she say so. Here was the loveliest, proudest 
girl in England trying to let him see that she liked him, 
and he had not understood. “She will hate me; she will 
think me the greatest boor in existence. So I am. But, 
oh ! Lady Ethel, what matters your love or your hate ? 
My peerless queen, you are not for me. I have tied my 
own hands; I cannot stretch them out for you.” 

He pictured to himself what it would have been had he 
not offered himself on this altar of honor. He would 


THE MEETING. 


157 


have gone after Lady Ethel, and he would not have left 
her until she promised to be his wife. What happiness ! 
He dare not think of it. How proud he should have been 
to have shown such a wife to the world — to have taken her 
to his proud mother, and have said, “See what a wife I 
have won ! — a daughter after your own heart 1” How glad 
his father would have been ! 

He lifted up a stone and flung it into the depths of 
the sea. 

“ What nonsense !” he said. “ Why should I waste my 
time in dreaming? I might as well try to find that stone 
again as try to see any chance, any hope of escape from 
what I have done. I have riveted my own fetters, and if 
they are heavy, I have no one to blame but myself.” 

He went back to Roseneath, and the first intelligence 
which greeted him was that marching orders had arrived ; 
he had but ten days more in England, and then he was to 
go with his regiment to Gibraltar. 

“You will stay with us to the last, Vivian?” said the 
countess, \^ho loved her son. “I shall not like losing 
you — ^you will remain with us?” 

And then it occurred to him that, before going to Gib- 
raltar, he must return to Rudeswell and make some 
arrangement with his wife. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THE MEETING. 

Alice had grown tired of longing; she had waited, 
watched, hoped, and prayed ; then a sudden sense of 
despair came over her. Of what use was it all ? He had 


158 


THE MEETING. 


been gone all these weeks, and she could count on her 
fingers the number of letters he had written. None of 
them had been particularly affectionate, but the tv o last 
had been worse than any other — they had been written in 
such haste, and they said so little. On this morning 
three lines, written in pencil, came by post, merely asking 
her to think over what arrangements she would like to 
make during his absence, as he was going abroad. 

It would have seemed more natural that she should 
have preferred to remain at home, but home was not the 
happiest place possible for her. Her father was always 
occupied, and when he had a little leisure he preferred his 
pipe and glass to any other kind of enjoyment ; then her 
mother made every one miserable by her complaining ; 
then Hettie and Frank carried on such a perpetual warfare 
that it occupied half her time in trying to make peace 
between them ; and Alice had plans of her own. She had 
decided what it was wisest and best to do. She must, 
while her husband was away, make herself a lady in every 
sense of the word — she must do her best to acquire all the 
habits, the refinements, the graces of the society to which 
he belonged. She had had education enough of one kind, 
new she wanted that which only comes from mixing in 
good society, for it was only in meeting him as his equal 
that she could ever hope to win his love. She understood 
it all so perfectly, his kindly toleration, his kindly indiffer- 
ence, his kindly intentions — how he meant always to be 
good and kind to her, but how far he was from loving her. 

“And I am ambitious, my darling husband,” she said; 
“I shall not rest satisfied with your liking, I must have 
your love. Even should it take years to win it, 1 will win 
it at last, because I love you so dearly and so well.” 

She had decided that while he was away she would 


THE MEETING. 


159 


devote the whole of her time to studying how to make the 
best of herself ; but, first and foremost, she must decidedly 
get into good society, where she could learn those things 
in which she was now most deficient. 

“ I see it plainly now," she said. “It is of no use to 
be able to quote Dante and Goethe in the original unless 
I have a pleasant manner, an easy, graceful address, and 
something like self-possession. I must acquire those first.” 

She had thought it well over, and she had come to this 
conclusion, that the wisest thing she could do was to go to 
some first-class school. She would ask her young hus- 
band’s advice, and if he consented, the matter was settled. 

Not for worlds would she have allowed Hettie to suspect 
this intention. Hettie's sarcasms would have been terri- 
ble — she would have made many bitter gibes and jests. 
To be married to go to school ! How absurd ! But then 
fortunately Hettie was not mistress of her destiny — there 
was no need for her to know anything about it. 

Poor Alice ! She dressed herself on the day that he was 
coming in her best dress, a new blue silk, very tastefully 
trimmed with white lace, and she wore red roses in her 
golden hair and on her white breast. She had given up 
hope, she had long felt nothing but despair, yet because 
he was coming all the sweetness of life returned to her — 
her eyes shone like two lustrous stars, her sweet face had a 
dainty flush on it. Any man, save one blinded by an- 
other’s love, must have read love on that most fair face 
and in those beautiful eyes. 

“Dear me,” said Hettie, when Alice went down into 
the little parlor, flushed with the knowledge of her own 
happiness and her own beauty — “dear me, this is a cer- 
tain sign that Mr. Nelson is expected home. Frank, see 


i6o 


THE MEETING. 


your sister dressed to receive her husband — wonder and 
admire. '' 

“Do not be inclined to rile to-day, Hettie,” said a 
sweet, soft voice. “lam very happy because my husband 
is coming home.” 

Hettie gave her a kiss, the very sound of which made 
Alice shudder. 

“No one shall tease you, Alice. Let Frank look to 
himself if he speaks. But, oh, Alice, how foolish you are, 
my dear, to take all that trouble for a man.” 

With which expression of her feelings, Miss Hettie was 
kind enough to go away and take Frank with her. 

“They will have plenty to talk about, Frank,” she said; 
“they will not want us.” 

So the young wife sat alone, watching and waiting for 
the carriage that was to bring her husband. The sweet 
face was flushed with agitation, the eyes bright with the 
fever of impatience. When he did come she grew pale as 
death, and from the white lips opened to greet Kim there 
came no sound. She might have turned blue or any 
other color, for all the notice that Lord Carsdale took; 
his eyes rested once for half a moment on the white, sweet 
face, then he said, carelessly : 

“ How are you, Ailie? How are they all at home?” 

The thought that passed through his mind was : 

“This is the girl who will part me forever from my 
love.” 

He was not unkind to her, but he was so indifferent, so 
careless, the girl’s heart turned in that moment to stone. 
Fie looked up when she did not answer. 

“Are they all well, Ailie?” 

“Yes,” she replied; and the sound of her voice was 
unlike anything human. 


THE MEETING. 


l6l 


He did not notice it ; he took out his watch and looked 
at it. 

“ I have but little time to stay, Ailie,'’ he said. “We 
had better begin to think of business at once.” 

“I am ready, ” she replied. 

He did not notice the pretty silk dress that had been 
made expressly to receive him, nor the red roses in the 
golden hair. 

“ I may be some years abroad,” he said, in a most mel- 
ancholy voice; “I have nothing to return home for; but, 
Ailie, I desire that you shall have every comfort and all 
that is needful while I am away.” 

“You are very good,” she replied, in a voice as dreary 
as his own. 

“Have you thought of any arrangement,” he asked, 
“which will add to your comfort while I am gone?” 

The tone was so indifferently kind, so business-like, so 
much like that which one stranger would use in speaking 
to another, that for a moment Ailie felt inclined to cry out 
against it — to cry out that she could not bear it ; then her 
own common sense came to her aid. 

“I have said to myself that I will be patient ; only 
patience can win,” she thought, and patient she was. 

“I have thought of a plan,” she said, “if you approve 
it. I have been thinking what I could do to remedy my 
deficiencies, and the best plan will be to go to school. ” 

He looked up with a sudden gleam of amusement 

^ ‘ Go where ?” he asked. 

* ‘ To school, ” she repeated. 

He looked more attentively at her. 

“To school!” he said. “Why, what has made you 
think of such a thing? Why to school, Ailie?” 

‘ ‘ Because I have so much yet to learn, and it would 


i 62 


THE MEETING. 


teach me that which I cannot learn at home, for instance — 
all those little niceties of manner that every lady should 
learn. I thought if I could acquire this it would make 
me a better companion for you — I should not shock you 
as I do now. I — oh, Vivian, you are not listening to 
me !” 

For in his eyes had come a dreamy expression, as though 
his thoughts were far away. 

“Yes, indeed, Ailie, I am listening; you thought of 
going to school. Why? I did not quite understand.” 

“So that I might be more like you and less distasteful 
to you,” she replied, still with the same feeling of quiet 
despair. 

Then he roused himself. She was thinking that in the 
years to come they would be companions ; he was think- 
ing that, as in all human probability they would never live 
together, it would be useless for her to make herself more 
unfit than she was already for home. 

“ I have a dream,” she said, in a low, sweet voice, “of 
making myself a lady — a lady like those who live in your 
grand world ; then — but I must not tell you what comes 
after then.” 

“If that gives you pleasure, Ailie, you must do it,” he 
said. 

“But,” cried the girl, with a quick, petulant movement, 
“what do you say about it? Are you pleased? Do you 
mistrust? Have you no interest in it? If you are not 
interested, I do not care.” 

The tone of her voice roused him. 

“What a little spitfire you are, Ailie — I did not know 
that you had so much spirit. Certainly, I am interested, 
dear. Can I ever do enough to atone to you for the posi- 
tion in which my reckless folly has placed you ?” 


THE MEETING, 


63 


I do not complain,” said Ailie. 

No ; you are too generous — but I feel it for you. By 
all means, Ailie, if you would like to go to school, go; 
but then you are growing old — ^you cannot remain there 
very long.” 

“I do not look old — I look young,” she said. “Be- 
sides, Vivian, you will return — you will not always be 
absent. You will not be gone so many years, shall you?” 

“I cannot tell, Ailie. Another thing is, that even for 
years after I return things may go on just as they are — I 
cannot possibly tell — I see no limit ; in fact, Ailie, I see 
no way out of the difficulty ; time may show us one — I do 
not see it. I repeat that I am sorry to my veiy heart that 
I led you into such a false position. ” 

“I am not sorry, and I never shall be,” said Alice, 
suddenly. “The happiest moment of my life was the 
moment in which I first saw you. ” 

The remembrance of his kindness to her — of the one 
happy day which seemed so long since passed — of the 
passionate love that filled her heart, all came over her 
again. She took his hand in her own and kissed it 

“I am not sorry,” she said, “and I never shall be.” 

Then he roused himself from his gloomy thoughts. 
This sweet, loving, gentle girl was worth a few kind words 
at least He looked more interested. 

“You will do wisely, after all, Ailie, to go to school. I 
think, after all, the atmosphere will be more congenial to 
you than this is.” 

The words seemed to arouse her pride. She did not 
like to hear him speak disparagingly of her friends or her 
home. 

“I suppose,” she said, quickly, “that you have been 


A STRANGE PARTING. 


164 

among such grand people lately that you do not care for 
my people.” 

“My dear Ailie,” he said, “that — pray pardon me — is 
a vulgar idea, and not expressed with your usual grace.” 

She tried to explain, but she could not ; she burst into 
a fit of passionate weeping. Lord Carsdale sprang from 
his seat. 

“I did not expect a scene, Ailie,” he said ; “you know 
that I have a great objection to tears. ” 

“ I know you are very cruel to me,” said Alice. 

“I cruel !” he cried ; cruel ! Why, I am doing all that 
I possibly can to please you and make you happy. I do 
not understand you, Ailie. ” 

She looked up at him. 

“Lord Carsdale,” she cried, “have you ever heard of 
one asking for bread and receiving a stone ?” 

“ I do not understand you, Ailie; you speak as though 
I had wronged you. I am doing all I can for you. What 
do you mean about bread and a stone? It was a most 
unfortuate affair for us, but reproaches are quite useless.” 

The answer died on her lips, for just at that moment 
the dancing-master and his wife entered the room. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

A STRANGE PARTING. 

All the details of that one interview came afterward 
like a wild, weird dream before Alice's mind. She could 
remember her passion of anger and despair. She who 
had longed for him, wept for him — who had so wished to 


A STRANGE PARTING. 


165 

see him until her whole heart and soul had become one 
grand wish — she saw that he cared less about meeting her, 
less about leaving her, than if she had been the greatest 
stranger to him. His indifference pained her more than 
severe anger or contempt could have done. One sorrowful 
look on his face, one half-sad word from his lips, and even 
in the anguish of losing him she would have been happy. 
But that word did not come. She saw an expression of 
weariness in his eyes; he did not seem in any way to look 
upon her as one apart from the rest of her family. 

Looking at him, she felt that she could hardly bear the 
hot pain that burned her heart away. She went from the 
room where he sat and sought her own ; she could bear 
it no longer — the anguish, the keen pain, the bitter heart- 
ache. The hot briny tears seemed to bum her eyes, yet 
she dared not let them fall. 

After these hours, days, and weeks of longing, it seemed 
so unutterably hard, so terribly hard, so unendurable. She 
had made such pictures to herself — she had fancied that as 
he was going away, he would clasp her in his arms, he 
would kiss her face, he would say at least, “I am sorry 
to leave you, Ailie" — he would show some sign of regret 
such as she longed for with all her heart and soul. But 
there was none ; he was simply unutterably indifferent, and 
it was the indifference that killed her. 

While Lord Carsdale sat fuming with impatience, the 
small, gloomy house, the untidy room, the commonplace 
parents, the unrefined brother and sister, the general sur- 
roundings, disgusted him as they had never done before. 
Frank seemed an unendurable hobbledehoy, Harriet rude 
beyond bearing; Rose was the only one who was in the least 
degree bearable. The drawling manner of the dancing- 
master annoyed him beyond all bounds, the languid in- 


i66 


A STRANGE PARTING, 


difference of his lady-wife insulted him. Great Heaven ! 
what had he done, that his life should be spent or mixed 
with such lives as these ? 

He said as little as possible, for while he was talking the 
stately, patrician grace of the Lady Pierpont, the delicate, 
fairy-like loveliness of Lady Ethel, all came before him. 
He could not help it ; he tried hard, but it was impossible 
to drive them away. He said little ; he was going abroad, 
and it was quite uncertain how long he should remain 
there ; he should settle on Ailie a certain yearly sum, to 
be paid quarterly; he would also, at any time, help the 
family in any of their difficulties; then, to Frank’s half 
annoyance, half delight, he gave the dancing-master a 
good round check, which was to defray the expenses of 
two years’ good schooling for him, and then he promised 
to send further assistance to enable him to make his choice 
of a trade or profession. He hardly glanced at the boy as 
he talked to his father, and Frank resented that fact most 
bitterly. 

“ He might look at me ; I am not quite the dirt beneath 
his feet. After all, he has married my own sister ; why 
need he be so high and mighty.?” 

And as the boy sat there, he took mental notes of his 
brother-in-law. Yes, when he was grown up he would 
wear just such shining boots, and he should give his hair 
that same particular waving look ; he would have diamond 
studs and a diamond pin ; then this supercilious man 
should see that other people could look quite as well as 
he did. 

Hettie sat in a state of burning indignation. Why did 
he come trying to patronize them with his airs, his graces, 
and his money, while he had barely a civil word to speak 
to them, and was breaking Alice’s heart ? Hettie would 


A STRANGE PARTING. 


167 


fain have returned the checks, and have bidden him take 
his money and his insolence elsewhere. At last he had 
said all that he had to say, and he rose with a sigh of 
unutterable relief. He held out his hand to the dancing- 
master, and shuddered at the grasp given to him in return ; 
he shuddered at Frank's languid affectation, at Mrs. Der- 
went’s tears. 

“It seems hard for Alice, sir, to be left in this way,” 
said the mother; and Lord Carsdale shuddered again at 
the words. What difference could it possibly make to 
Alice whether he remained in England or went away 
from it? 

Every one in that room thought and believed that he 
had said farewell to Alice, that his lingering after she had 
quitted the room was but a way of showing a kindly, 
patronizing feeling toward them. No one, when he rose 
and made his indifferent adieu — no one for a moment 
thought he was leaving without a word to his wife; no 
one dreamed but that the last sad farewell words had been 
spoken between them ; so that her name was not even 
mentioned, and the door of the little house closed upon 
Vivian, Lord Carsdale, amid a shower of good wishes and 
comments. He knew that he had seen Alice, he did not 
know that he had not even touched her hand in farewell ; 
he never even dreamed that she was waiting in a passion 
of fear, and sorrow, and despair, to say good-by to him. 
Perhaps if he had seen the picture, the little room, the fair 
young girl in the keen passion of her sorrow, the slender 
figure swaying to and fro as a leaf sways in the winds, the 
white hands clasped and unclasped, wrung in anguish, 
folded in prayer, the fair, sad face, the eyes drowned in 
tears, the lips quivering with sighs — perhaps had he seen 
that, his heart might have reproached him for the neglect 


i68 


A ^STRANGE PARTING. 


and indifference \iith which he treated his young wife. As 
it was, he walked down the street with a half impatient 
smile. It was over, thank Heaven, and he had had quite 
enough of it After all, it had been a mad freak, a foolish 
marriage, an absurd kind of sacrifice to an absurd idea ; 
he was well rid of it Something or other would most 
assuredly happen before he returned from Gibraltar ; and 
even if it did not, he should be absent at least for some 
years, and forget it for a while. He had been lavishly 
generous to them ; and, after all, it had been a fortunate 
day for poor Alice Derwent 

He did not think of her as he passed along the sun- 
lighted streets ; he had forgotten her long before he reached 
the railway station ; and when, in the after days, he thought 
of her, it was with the feeling of one who had done his 
duty in the most noble manner possible. 

“It seems a strange kind of marriage, does this,” said 
Mrs. Derwent, as the door closed. “I should not have 
liked a husband who would have left me for so long. ” 

“It has been a good thing for us, Fanny,” said the 
dancing-master, slowly; “we need not find fault with it. 
I cannot think what would have become of this great, 
awkward Frank here but for this money.” 

Frank quickly resented this insult to his manhood, 
declaring that he was no more awkward than any one 
else. John Derwent looked at him slowly, with an amusing 
glance. 

“You will never dance properly, Frank, if you live for- 
ever,” he said, and he could imagine no greater reproach 
than that. 

“lam sure,” chimed in poor Mrs. Derwent, “that the 
way of love and marriage seems to me a very hard one. 


A STJRANGE PARTING. 169 

Look at Alice, so young, and really, though I say it my- 
self, so pretty; then look at me.” 

But as the recital of his wife’s woes was the last thing 
on earth that the dancing-master could endure, he abruptly 
quitted the room, while his wife continued, in the most 
languid tone of voice, to relate the history and experience 
of her married life to her two daughters, Rose and Har- 
riet. Hettie wearied first; it was lime, she thought, to 
seek her sister and find out how she bore the pain of 
parting with her husband. 

“For,” said Hettie to herself, “she is so absurdly, so 
idiotically fond of him, that she will be breaking her heart 
over him, instead of feeling thankful that he is out of the 
way. I know 1 should be glad if all the men in the world 
had a holiday at times, and kept out of the way.” 

Hettie went up to her sister’s room and opened the 
door. She started back aghast at the sight of the white, 
tortured face, the pitiful, weeping eyes. 

Alice sprang forward. 

“Does he want me, Hettie?” she cried. “ Has he sent 
for me.?” 

Hettie looked up with wondering eyes. 

“He ! Who do you mean, Alice.? — what he?” 

“ My husband,” said the girl. “ Has h'.; sent for me?” 

Then Hettie went up to her, fearing that herr^^feat 
sorrow had driven her mad. She threw her arms round 
the trembling figure; she tried to still the quivering (if 
the lips and the hands; she spoke in a tone strangely 
gentle for her. 

“ Your husband, Alice I” she repeated. “Why, my dear, 
he’s gone. ” 

Hettie never forgot the scene that followed — the wild 
cry that came from Alice's white lips as she rose from her 


170 


A STRANGE PARTING. 


encircling arms. Every vestige of color faded from her 
face, an awful fear darkened her eyes. 

“Gone !” she repeated ; “gone, Hettie The terrible 
whisper thrilled the younger sister’s heart. “You must 
be mistaken ; he did not wish me good-by !” 

“Oh, my darling!” sobbed Hettie, “do not take it in 
that way — do not take it so hardly; he is not worth it.” 

Another wild cry, and Alice tried to spring from those 
strong arms. 

“ Let me go, Hettie j you are killing me. Let me go, 
I say! You must not try to hold me. He is my husband, 
and I must see him. I must see him, or I must die !” 

“But, Alice, you cannot; he is gone; he is nearly at 
the station by this time.” 

“I must see him,” gasped the poor child; “he must 
kiss me; 1 shall perhaps never see him again. Hettie, 
for the love of Heaven, do not try to stop me ! I shall 
die if you do.” 

Double strength seemed to come to her. She tore her- 
self from Hettie, and hastened to the door, but Hettie 
feared a scene, and caught her before it was opened. 

“ Alice, darling,” she said, “it is too late ; it is, indeed. 
He is gone ; he will have left the station by this time ; 
you cannot see him; it is not possible. Try to under- 
stand me — he is gone.” 

For the sweet, sad eyes were raised, and were fixed so 
wistfully on hers, that Hettie cried out in distress. 

“What shall I do.?” she said. “Shall I make her un- 
derstand ?” 

She took the trembling hands in her own. 

“My darling Alice,” she said, “ I cannot understand it 
at all. I thought — we all thought — that you had said 
good-by to him. It cannot be possible that he has left 


ALMOST FORGOTTEN, 


171 

without saying good-by to you. He was very kind, in 
that grand way of his. He gave papa some money for 
Frank’s education, and he said that the family were to 
send to him, through you, if they were in any kind of 
distress. ” 

“But — he left no message for me !” she gasped. 

“No; not one word,” said Hettie. 

Then the slender figure slipped from her grasp and fell 
on the floor. 

“All about one man,” said Hettie to herself. “Ah, me ; 
what a waste of emotion ! Was he worth grieving over, 
when he could go away and leave her so ?” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

ALMOST FORGOTTEN. 

Hettie raised her sister from the ground and laid her on 
the bed. The white arms and hands hung down useless, 
the pale face was still, the white eye-lids closed. 

“All for a man I” thought Hettie, “who is perhaps 
whistling or singing, but who cares less for her than for 
the horse he rides or the dog who runs by his side. Oh, 
Alice, my darling, if you could but care less for him !” 

She was very gentle and kind to this poor, hapless suf- 
ferer in this, the great sorrow of her life. She told no one, 
which to Hettie was a severe piece of self-denial. She 
bathed the white face in cold, moan clear water ; she sat 
by her side until a faint showed she was awakening to her 
sorrow. . 


172 


ALMOST FORGOTTEN. 


^‘Oh, Hettie, is it true?” sobbed the poor child — “is 
he really gone? I had so much to say to him— he has 
been gone so long — and I — I wanted him to kiss me, and 
to say that he was sorry to leave me — it would have been 
something for me to have lived on all the long lime that 
he will be away. I have been thinking all these long 
weeks what I should say to him. ” 

“ But, Alice, my dear,” said straightforward Hettie, “if 
you were so anxious to have said ‘good-by' to him, why 
did you leave him ? After all, it is quite your own fault — 
you know you came away. Why did you do that? Why 
did you leave him ?” 

Alice looked almost hopelessly at her — she could not 
tell her. She could not say to her that she had left him in 
anger because his indifference pained her so keenly ; she 
could not bear it. She could not tell Hettie that, lest 
Hettie should say unkind and cruel things about him, and 
those she could not bear ; she could only be silent and 
listen in her sick, sad despair. She caught Hettie's hand 
in her own. 

“You will never tell,” she said, as Hettie wondered at 
the burning fire of those hands — “you will never tell, 
Hettie, or they will talk about it, and make surmises 
about it, until they drive me mad. You will keep faith 
with me, Hettie?” 

“Y^s; I am rough in my way, Alice, but I will help 
you — I shall never tell ; I will help you in every way. I 
think, you know, though it seems hard to say so to a deli- 
cate little thing like you, that it is in a great degree your 
own fault. I should think that he had evidently some- 
thing to hurry about, and in the hurry he thought he had 
said good-by to you, when in reality he had not — that is 
all. He meant no unkindness — he simply forgot; men 


ALMOST FORGOTTEN. 


173 


do not remember things as women do. I should not 
make myself unhappy about it — he will write a very kind 
letter about it when he remembers it.’’ 

Something like a faint gleam of brightness came over 
the white, sad face. 

“Do you think so, Hettie?” she asked. “Do you 
really think that? I ani so glad. I shall be so pleased. 
And, Hettie, stay with me — do not let any one else 
come in.” 

It was so new to Hettie to be looked upon as a comfort 
to any one ; she was only too anxious to play her new part 
gracefully. Presently Mrs. Derwent came to the door, 
bearing her universal refuge and comfort in her hand — a 
cup of strong tea. She recommended that to every one 
for all kinds of evils, both of body and mind. 

“Alice, my dear,” she said, “you must be terribly tired, 
I am sure. Drink this; it will do your heart good. We 
all have these kind of troubles to bear. ” 

Alice clung to Hettie. If she could only hide her white 
face and weeping eyes, she cared little for anything else. 
Hettie shielded her ; Hettie took the tea and talked to her 
mother while the hot, fevered hands clasped hers. I'hen 
Mrs. Derwent, satisfied, went away, leaving the sisters 
together. 

“Will it soon be night, Hettie?” was the question that 
the pale lips asked continually. “At night I shall most 
likely sleep, and if I sleep I shall forget it, Hettie — shall I 
not forget and sleep ?” 

So Hettie watched impatiently enough until the sun set 
and the world began to grow dark. She longed for the 
noises in the streets to cease — she longed for the mantle 
of silence to fall over the noisy little house, for the 
scraping of the fiddle, the sound of the pupils’ arrival, the 


174 


ALMOST LORGOTTEN. 


loud voice of Frank — she longed for all that to cease, that 
the burning head might grow cool, that the tired eyes 
might rest. It seemed long in coming, that rest and 
silence; carts with heavy wheels rolled down the street, 
men with hoarse voices called out to each other, while 
Alice lay sick unto death with despair. Hettie was almost 
frightened ; the wild pain in the sad eyes, the constant 
trembling of the pale, sweet lips — she could never forget 
them. 

At length the desire of her heart came ; night brought 
silence and rest, the pupils went home one by one; the 
fiddle was put away; Frank went to his room, and the 
house lay dark and silent. Mrs. Derwent looked in to 
see if Alice would like more tea; she talked in her faint, 
languid style, of bearing patiently all the troubles that of 
necessity followed married life. 

“And after all, Alice,” she said, “you are a very for- 
tunate girl ; it is a sad thing, of course, that your husband 
has had to leave you ; but, my dear, you are mercifully 
spared a great deal. Men make a great deal of work in a 
house, and give a great deal of trouble. You will have 
plenty of money to live on, and nothing to do, as it were. 
I think you are really fortunate. You can enjoy yourself 
nicely while your husband is away. ” 

This was well-meant comfort and consolation, but it 
did not produce much effect upon Alice; she listened, 
and murmured something unintelligible. Mrs. Derwent 
went away quite satisfied that she had administered words 
of wisdom and comfort. 

Then night began. There have been some strange 
nights in this world. That was one when the German 
lady watched the dying agonies of her husband under the 
starry sky; that was another when the attendants of Jane 


ALMOST FORGOTTEN. 


175 


Seymour waited to see if Annie Boleyn would be slain, 
and their mistress married on the morrow ; that was an- 
other when Elizabeth of England lay tossing on her couch 
trying to decide whether Essex should die or not ; it was 
another when poor Lady Jane Grey spent her last hours in 
prison, wondering whether men could really put one so 
young and tender to death; another when Marie Antoi- 
nette, the Austrian, watched for the first gleam of day that 
was to be her last 

This night that Alice passed was, in its way, as strange 
as any of them ; it seemed to change her from a girl to a 
woman; while it lasted, her youth, her hope, the bright- 
ness of her life, all seemed to die. Hettie never forgot it; 
she had never been so frightened before. The darkness 
she had longed for became almost unbearable, the silence 
terrible, for, as the night went on, Alice talked wildly, the 
burning heat increased. She cried out that she must see 
him — he was going away for year--, and she must say one 
word to him. But the most terrible moment of all was 
when Alice, half-mad in the delirium of her fever and 
sorrow, thought he had returned to her — how she wept, 
prayed, and pleaded with him — how she prayed him for a 
little love — a little love — one kind word, one kiss before 
he went away. 

“I hope,’’ thought Hettie, ‘Uhat such a thing as thTs 
will never happen to me ; I never have cared for a man — 
I care still less now. If one can make poor Alice suffer, 
how much suffering is inflicted by a world of men.?” 

Then, while the unhappy young wife tossed to and fro, 
sometimes crimson in the delirium of fever, sometimes 
white and still as one who lay dead, Hettie sat by her, 
wondering what would happen to her — would she recover, 
or would this illness deepen on her until she died.? Then 


176 


ALMOST FORGOTTEN. 


Hettie wondered over many things. For a love match, it 
was most certainly a strange one ; yet, if he had not loved 
her — this rich stranger — why need he have married her.? 
He must have loved her very much indeed to have married 
her. What had become of the love since, for certainly, so 
far as she could see, none of it remained ? He was most 
completely indifferent to her. 

‘‘I suppose,” thought Hettie, “that a man's love does 
not last very long — a few weeks, or, at the most, a few 
months, and all is over ; the light dies, the glamour fades. 
Thank Heaven ! no man will ever either make me mis- 
erable or make me love him.” 

She was very stanch and true to her unhappy sister ; she 
spent the long hours of the night watching by her side ; 
she never left her. No one could have believed that that 
gentle girl, whose fingers touched the hot head so gently, 
whose voice murmured such sweet words, was Hettie, the 
romp, the untidy girl, the loud-voiced — in fact, as Mrs. 
Derwent languidly called her, the vulgarian of the family. 
When morning had broken, fresh and gray* Alice fell into 
a deep slumber, fevered and restless at first, but deeper 
and more tranquil after a time. That slumber, in all 
probability, saved her from a severe illness. 

“ Is it morning.?” she said, when she opened her eyes — 
“morning, Hettie, and you have been with me all night. 
I have lived through that now, I shall not die. It seems 
to me, Hettie, long weeks since I came here to sleep my 
pain away. You have been very good to me, my little 
sister. ” 

She tried to rise, but the trembling limbs, the white 
face, so full of haggard pain, frightened Hettie, who per- 
suaded her to lie still. 


ALMOST FORGOTTEN. 


177 

** You must be content to let us treat you as an invalid, 
Alice,” she said, “and rest perfectly quiet.” 

Alice was only thoughtful ; the sound of the swift cur- 
rent of human life reached her, the sound of the busy 
world wakened into busy day. She was quite content to 
lie still and listen — to rest from thought, and purchase 
oblivion if she could. She never forgot that day — the 
slow, crawling hours, the lingering sunlight — all bringing 
with them the slow pain of despair. While Lord Carsdale 
was brisk and bright, thankful to have done, for a time at 
least, with a most disagreeable piece of business, thinking 
a great deal about Lady Ethel, and feeling rather pleased 
than otherwise that he should see Gibraltar. He bought a 
most beautiful locket — a mass of most beautiful pearls — 
and that he sent to Lady Ethel, anonymously. She would 
never know that he had sent it, yet he should have the 
great satisfaction of kissing and holding in his hand some- 
thing that she would wear and like. 

He never thought of writing to Alice. She had no 
longer any distinct individuality for him. She was simply 
part of a disagreeable affair. Indeed the chances were 
that had any one suddenly asked him if he had ever 
admired any pretty girl at Lady well he would have an- 
swered, “No.” 

The regatta, the fair, girlish face that had brightened so 
for him, were almost things of the past; and yet, in spite 
of all this, women will go on loving and trusting until the 
end of the world. 


r 


178 


MADAME ROUBART^S PUPIL. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

MADAME ROUBART's PUPIL. 

Three weeks had passed since Lord Carsdale went away, 
leaving his fair young wife without one word of farewell or 
comfort. For a long time Alice had hoped against hope. • 
She had expected a letter saying that he was sorry to have 
forgotten her, sorry not to have bidden her a most affec- 
tionate farewell. For many days she waited for that letter, 
but it never came; and then she knew that the matter of 
bidding her farewell was so entirely indifferent to him, he 
did not even remember that he had not made it. It was 
almost like a death-blow to her, this certain conviction of 
his utter indifference. She could never quite realize that 
only a keen sense of honor had made him marry her; 
that was beyond her ; there must have been a little love, 
she said to herself. Now she realized the truth in all its 
deformity; she understood that she was indeed a barrier 
between her husband and the full enjoyment of his life. 

Slowly, surely, fatally the truth dawned upon her. What 
should she do? More than once she wished, dearly as 
she loved him, that she could die — die, and leave him free 
— die, that he might forget all this shadow darkening his 
life, and perhaps marry again, some one in his own rank 
of life, with whom he might be happy. Then, when her 
thoughts reached this climax, she abruptly dismissed them. 
This would not do; he did not love her, but she could 
not endure the thought that he should love any one else. 
No, she would not kill herself; she must do something 
else. What should she do.? For long days she lay think- 


MADAME ROUBART^S PUPIL. 


179 


ing over that important question — what should she do? 
Slowly enough the plan revealed itself to her which was to 
lead to such strange situations. 

She would go to school, and educate herself so that 
when he did return he should be proud of her, and not 
ashamed — that he should admire her. Alice, to use a 
business phrase, “took stock of herself;” she tried to 
estimate her own personal appearance, her powers of cap- 
tivation. Could any degree of training, she wondered, ever 
make her as graceful and elegant as the ladies who be- 
longed to his world ? She would try ; and after long days 
of thought and study, she settled upon a way out of her 
difficulties. 

The first thing was to swear Hettie to secrecy.; if she 
proved true, there were but few obstacles in her way ; for 
Alice's plan was to go first to some first-class finishing- 
school, then to find a situation in some aristocratic family, 
either as governess or companion, where she would be 
able to study the habits and manners, the customs and 
training of a class which differed so greatly from her own. 
Then, when he came home, she would be ready for him ; 
she would have improved and altered so greatly that he 
would fall in love with her all over again. So, in her 
simple, straightforward way, she set to work at once. 

She sought information in the proper channel, and she 
was told that the best finishing-school in England was that 
of Madame Roubart, a French lady, who resided in Hyde 
Park Gardens, and who consented to receive a few young 
ladies on the condition that they paid her two hundred 
per annum each, with extras. The extras were the chief 
resource of Madame Roubart, and they brought her in a 
very handsome income. Parents opened the eyes of 
wonder as they perused that list of extras. It was man- 


MADAME ROUE ART'S PUPIL. 


l8o 

aged after this fashion : One child required a boot-lace 
— two dozen were purchased, amounting to sixpence — 
“boot-laces, one shilling," went at once into the bill of 
every young lady in the school. Three cabs would be 
chartered on a rainy Sunday to take so many young ladies, 
contract price, to church — “cab to church and back, five 
shillings,” would be the next item. Assistant mistresses 
and masters looked upon Madame Roubart with wonder; 
those items were something marvelous, and they all knew 
her facility for inventing them. 

Some of Madame Roubart’s pupils had married well, 
and it was to this fact that most of her success was to be 
attributed. It was just possible that some of the pupils 
brought up entirely on her system might make a trifling 
mistake in spelling ; but on points of etiquette, of grace- 
ful manner, of a thorough knowledge of all the ways and 
forms of society, Madame Roubart’s pupils were unsur- 
passed. It was quite sufficient at any time to say that a 
young lady had been finished at her establishment to 
insure her a certain amount of success. Pretty girls were 
sent to Madame Roubart’s that their beauty might be made 
the most of, plain ones that they might lack nothing but 
beauty. Lady Ada Stenforth, a few months after she left 
Madame Roubart s, captivated the young Marquis of Rea- 
meaton by her graceful dancing and finished manner; 
Miss Clayton charmed the Marquis de Alcone, the rich and 
handsome cousin of the French ambassador, by the per- 
fect manner in which she spoke French; Miss Langdale 
had married the Duke of Portcastle, who declared her to 
be the best bred girl he had ever met ; so that Madame 
Roubart’s fame had increased considerably. She had bad 
some thought of increasing her terms, say to three hun- 
dred instead of two, but she was advised not to attempt it. 


MADAME ROUBART^S PUPIL. i8i 

Madame Roubart occasionally took a pupil who did not 
belong to the higher ranks — one who had more money 
than high birth. It was not often that she did so; but 
when she did, the money advantages gained amply com- 
pensated for it. 

Madame Roubart was herself a comely-looking lady of 
forty, but looking decidedly ten years younger; she had 
the dark eyes and quick, bright face of a Frenchwoman; 
she was graceful, bland, serene, and dignified ; her pupils 
adored her; they never heard a disagreeable word from 
her ; if she had anything of that kind to say, any fault to 
find, any objection to raise, it was done always through 
her head mistress, Mrs. Floward, a widow lady of great 
accomplishments, who was happy enough in finding so 
comfortable a home. Madame Roubart had a luxurious 
little boudoir, where she was accustomed to repose after 
the labors of the day, and where her favorite pupils were 
called for a private and madame sat there one 

evening, with an open letter in her hand. Mrs. Howard, 
her faithful aide-de-camp, was with her, and they were dis- 
cussing its contents. 

“Derwent,” said madame; “the name does not strike 
me as familiar; I do not remember it. She cannot be 
related to Lady Derwent, that is evident, or she would not 
say that she is unknown ; still, Derwent is a good name, 
and two hundred per annum for just the elegancies of life 
is not to be despised. What do you say, Mrs. Howard ?” 

“I have not read the letter, madame,” replied that 
faithful auxiliary ; and Madame Roubart placed the letter 
in her hands. She read : 

“ Dear Madame I should be glad to know if you could receive 
me as a boarder in your establishment. I have received a good edu- 
cation, but, owing to my having been abroad for some years, I am 


i 82 


MADAME ROUBART^S PUPIL. 


not conversant with the rules of English society. I am aware that 
you will probably require references ; being quite unknown, I have 
none to give that I can offer you. I am residing with my parents at 
Rudeswell. I can offer you two hundred per annum, paid in ad- 
vance. Will you kindly let me hear from you at your earliest con- 
venience. 

I am, madame, yours obediently, 

“Alice Derwent.” 

Mrs. Howard read the letter carefully. 

'‘It is a good letter,” she said, thoughtfully; “well 
written, well expressed, and I am sure is written by a 
sincere person.” 

“Yes; but what class of person?” said madame, im- 
patiently. “In short, should you think it safe for me to 
receive the writer of it?” 

Mrs. Howard looked thoughtfully at the paper. 

“I think so,” she replied; “I should say quite safe. 
If there were anything wrong, she would hardly have 
written here. She is, perhaps, the daughter of some pro- 
vincial squire or banker, who has been to a continental 
school and finds herself at a loss in English society. By 
all means take her, madame. ” 

Madame Roubart smiled, half sadly, as it was her lan- 
guid fashion to do. 

“ I shall take your advice, Mrs. Howard,” she said. 

And the result was a letter saying that Madame Roubart 
would be willing to receive her. They waited with some 
little anxiety for the arrival of the new pupil ; they were 
relieved when she appeared. A fair, beautiful young girl, 
with a sweet, half-sad face, tender eyes, and sensitive lips — 
“a wild-flower kind of beauty,” Mrs. Howard declared. 

There was a long tete-a-tete between madame and Alice 
on the first night of her arrival. Madame sent for her to 


MADAME ROUE ART'S PUPIL, 183 

her boudoir. She was already greatly interested in the 
girl’s appearance ; she placed her in an easy-chair. 

“Now, my dear Miss Derwent,” she said, “it seems to 
me that we are rather friends than mistress and pupil ; I 
have some few things that it will be better to say to you at 
once. Of course you are aware that I have done a very 
unusual thing in taking you without references of any 
kind — tell me, quite frankly and honestly, have you any 
motive for desiring secrecy?” 

“None,” replied Alice, “except that my parents are 
poor ; they do not belong to the same class as the parents 
of your pupils.” 

“Let us quite understand each other. Why do you 
wish to acquire different habits, different manners?” 

Alice thought for a moment before she replied. 

• ‘ Because, in the years to come, I shall have a different 
position to fill.” 

“You are engaged, then, to be married — or something 
of the kind ?” continued madame. 

“Something of the kind,” replied Alice. 

“Now I understand, Miss Derwent.. You expect to fill 
a high position, and you wish to be prepared for it. That 
shall be done — it was only needful for me to know what 
was required. Could you trust me far enough to tell me 
what that position will be ?” 

Alice raised her sad, sweet eyes to the comely face. 

‘ ‘ No, ” she replied ; / ‘ that I cannot do. I have promised, 
and I must keep my word. ” 

Greatly did madame marvel who it was that she had 
under her roof, and what rank she would have to fill. 


AT SCHOOL. 


184 


CHAPTER XXVL 

AT SCHOOL. 

Alice Derwent found that she had done a wise thing for 
herself in leaving home. There she would simply have 
made herself miserable and wretched — have wasted her 
time and thoughts in lamenting her love, the absence of 
her husband, his cruel indifference. She would have lost 
her beauty by fretting and fuming, in melancholy thoughts 
and futile desires. Here life had a thousand ends and 
aims ; the world was quite a different place ; life wore an- 
other aspect. For the first time she saw the fashionable 
aspect of life — its gayeties, pleasures, amusements were all 
discussed in her presence. She learned to talk as others 
talked; the drawing-room, the balls, all became familiar 
to her as household words. She improved rapidly, won- 
derfully. She had been well and solidly grounded in all 
the elements of education ; now to this was added a super- 
structure of accomplishments. 

Alice rapidly acquired a grace of manner that was in 
itself almost perfect. 

Madame Roubart took great interest in her new pupil ; 
they had together many of those tete-a-tetes with which 
madame only favored her most aristocratic pupils. 

Madame was deeply interested in that most fair face; 
the sad, sweet eyes had a language all their own for her. 
She was curious, too; she longed to know more of this 
fair, gentle girl, whose life seemed apart from others, over 
whom a strange shadow hovered always, who seemed to 
have sprung from a lowly lot and aspired to a higher one. 


AT SCHOOL. 


185 


Madame was interested. Most of her pupils she read 
easily, as she would have done the pages of a book ; this 
gentle, thoughtful girl was rather beyond her ordinary 
powers of observation. Mrs. Howard liked her exceed- 
ingly, and many little hints that were of greatest use to 
her came to her through the kindness of the head-mistress. 

She made many friends, too. At first madame’s pupils 
had stood aloof from the quiet, gentle girl, who never 
boasted of either rank or wealth. At first they called her 
an upstart, and looked down upon her, but gradually that 
idea died away; she was so gentle, so kind, so consid- 
erate, always willing to help every one in their little diffi- 
culties, always willing to listen to a lover's story and to 
sympathize. 

Many and various were the love-stories afloat at Madame 
Roubart’s. Constance Erningham, the beautiful daughter 
of a wealthy marquis, had a grand love story — a tragedy, 
in which her cousin, a handsome young captain, with 
nothing but his pay, played a considerable part; there was 
pretty, coquettish Laura Leamington, who had been sent 
out of the way of a hopelessly handsome midshipman, 
about whom she talked incessantly ; Louise La Villiere, 
who had befen through the agonies of a hopeless attach- 
ment to a grand seigneur of the old school. 

It was only natural that among all these girls, whose 
experience in the courts of Cupid was of so various a 
nature, Alice should hear an immense deal that was at 
once painful and pleasant. 

She heard stories that filled her with envy of how these 
lovers loved — how one rose every morning at six, so that 
he might gather with his own hands flowers for his lady- 
love — how another had thought nothing of a gallop of 
fifteen miles for the sake of one minute spent with the girl 


i86 


AT SCHOOL. 


he loved — how another had gone through perils of all 
kinds, through persecution and fatigue, embarrassments 
of all descriptions, in order to show his love for the one 
he had chosen. Indeed, a boarding-school for young 
ladies may in many instances be considered quite a hot- 
bed of love. 

Alice heard so much there of love and lovers that her 
ideas were much enlarged on the point. She saw more 
plainly that Lord Carsdale had pitied her, had liked her, 
but had never loved her. If all these stories were true, 
and love worked such wonders in men’s minds, then 
indeed had no love been given her. 

Madame Roubart’s pupils liked her very much indeed ; 
they all thought her -the daughter of some country squire, 
and Alice had sense enough and caught up the spirit of 
the place sufficiently to understand that the less she said 
of her home and her surroundings the better. More than 
once she heard the name of Waldrove of Roseneath and 
Lord Carsdale. One of the young ladies — ^Jennie Tring — 
had an elder sister, a blonde beauty, who admired the heir 
of Roseneath very much ; indeed Miss Tring had resolved 
that, if possible, she intended to be Countess of Waldrove. 
Jennie talked quite frankly of the chance that her sister 
had of success, while Alice sat quite still, wondering what 
they would say if they knew that in the years to come she 
would be Countess of Waldrove — what they would have 
said if they had known that the fair-haired, sweet-faced 
girl, who was only judged from her quiet exterior, was in 
reality Lady Carsdale ? 

Time passed on — Alice made the best of it. She 
worked hard; she was so quick and so keen of percep- 
tion that in a short time she had acquired all the outward 
semblance of a perfec-t lady. In one year from the time 


AT SCHOOL. 


187 

she had first entered Madame Roubart’s it would have 
been almost impossible to recognize her; her carriage, her 
manner, her whole bearing had so completely changed. 
She was now one of madame’s favorite pupils. She very 
rarely heard from her husband; when she did so, it was 
merely a few hastily-written lines, saying that all was well 
at Gibraltar, and hoped that she was well at home — never 
more than that, never less. She received her money regu- 
larly, and the income that in his kindness of heart Lord 
Carsdale had promised to the Derwents was regularly paid 
to them. If John Derwent and his wife had one greater 
source of wonder than another it was that their daughter, 
now that she had money, should care to live at school. 

They wondered that she did not care rather to have 
rooms in some pretty sea-side place, and enjoy herself, as 
they would have done under the circumstances. 

So life ran on smoothly and gayly enough for all of 
them. Lord Carsdale was for some time quite enchanted 
with his life ; his military duties, the military society, the 
novel and beautiful scenery, the strange, half-romantic 
style of everything delighted him — it was all new, piquant, 
and delightful ; he had in him just enough of romance to 
love anything rather out of the common line, and at first 
he was enchanted with his life. He forgot ail about his 
marriage in the careless buoyancy of his spirit ; he threw 
off all thought of the bondage that held him until his 
lawyers letters, statement of accounts, brought it to his 
mind ; then remembering it, he would sigh deeply. 

What a simpleton he had been — how he had marred his 
life ; the next cigar would lose its flavor, the next escapade 
would fall dull and flat, then gradually he would forget it 
again, and enter into the wild excitement of a military 
life. 


i88 


AT SCHOOL, 


Yet, beneath this carelessness — though after a time he 
forgot even the outlines of his young wife’s face, though 
the sound of her voice faded from him and left him, 
though he had almost ceased to remember how it was and 
why he had married her — there was in his mind an under- 
current of bitterness, a sense of bondage, a keen pain that 
deepened as the days wore on, and the face of Ethel Pier- 
pont grew every day dearer and dearer to him. A sense 
of intolerable bondage irritated him, although he thought 
so little of his wife that he quite ceased to connect this 
thought with her. He tried to drown it, to stifle it as 
much as he could, but it returned again and again — it 
irritated him, it took the brightness from his heart, yet he 
was young and sanguine ; five years seemed a long time ; 
some miracle or other must happen in that time. 

It was not his freedom to which he looked forward with 
this hope, the thought, the wish, the desire, the hope that 
Ailie should die was as remote from his mind as anything 
could be ; it was a vain, intangible kind of something that 
would give him Lady Ethel — that should undo this mar- 
riage that he had so little considered, so little thought of. 

As time wore on the fact of his marriage faded more 
and more from his mind. But for the realities of the 
incomes he had guaranteed, all would have seemed to him 
a dream. It is not so wonderful when one remembers 
that he saw so little of his wife, that he had only married 
her to save her from the consequences of her own folly 
and his imprudence in taking her to the regatta. 

More than once he said to himself that when he had 
time he would go to England and see if it could not possi- 
bly be undone. After all it seemed half absurd that a few 
words, such as he had uttered, should bind him for life, 
when neither heart, head, nor will went with it. 


AT SCHOOL. 


189 

‘*A mistaken marriage,” he heard the words over and 
over again in his mind before the incident faded from him. 
Whenever his thoughts reverted to his return home it was 
on Lady Ethel they rested ; he never, even in his imagina- 
tion, saw himself returning to his young wife, Ailie. 

So time passed with him, while for Lady Ethel there 
was quite another phase. Lady Pierpont was growing dis- 
satisfied with her ; she wondered what could possess her. 
One brilliant offer after another was made to her, and she 
refused it. As Lady Pierpont said to herself, “the girl 
might as well have been plain.” Here she was, the love- 
liest woman in Europe — princes, dukes, and earls, all 
sighing for her, while to all of them she turned a deaf ear. 
She refused some of the best matches in Europe, and 
Lady Pierpont was almost in despair over it. 

“What do you mean, Ethel?” she said to her one day. 
“My dear, I am very anxious over you. You send away 
one eligible man after another. I must ask you for whom 
are you waiting?” 

“ For whom, mamma? That would be difficult to tell. 
For the right person, I should imagine.” 

Lady Pierpont looked very grave. 

“If you have not met him yet,” she replied, “I shall 
begin to fear 'that you will not meet him at all.” 

Lady Ethel laughed, and if in that laughter there was a 
sad ring, like the minor key in a beautiful harmony, the 
ambitious mother never perceived it 


190 


MADAME ROUBART^S ADVICE. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

MADAME ROUBART’s ADVICE. 

Four years had passed since Vivian, Lord Carsdale, went 
away, leaving his young wife, and four years had brought 
changes. The merry month of May had just begun to 
smile over the land, the fire of the laburnums gleamed 
golden from the green masses of foliage, the birds were 
singing in their leafy bowers, the air was sweet with the 
odor of violet and mignonette, the trees thrilled again with 
the sweetness of new life. 

One bright morning in this bright month, Alice stood 
in her room alone ; she had been out with Madame Rou- 
bart, and some little incident that occurred on the way 
had sent her thoughts to the husband who had almost 
ceased to remember her existence. For the last two years 
he had not written one line to her ; she had received her 
income, simply because it was a matter quite in the 
lawyers’ hands — Lord Carsdale had nothing to do with it. 
This bright May morning, thinking of him and of how 
strangely her life was passing, had saddened her. Four 
years married, and during that time her husband had 
neither written nor spoken one word of love to her — he 
had never ^kissed her, never held her hand in his own, 
never shown the least interest in her since the day he had 
married her; while she had grown to love him with an 
idolatrous love. All the poems, the novels she had read, 
the love stories written in burning words, the tragedies, the 
reading of which had mocked her life — all these had gone 
to feed the wild worship she had for him. 


MADAME EOUBART^S ADVICE. 


191 


Once, during the first year of his absence, in an un- 
guarded moment he had sent her his photograph. It had 
happened quite accidentally.; he had had some excellent 
ones taken, and they lay, carelessly enough, upon his 
writing-table. Without a moment’s thought, he placed 
one inside the envelope he was addressing to her; he 
never thought of the pain or of the pleasure it would 
cause; it was an act of simple indifference. There was 
the envelope, there was the photograph ; he sent them 
together, never dreaming of the rapture of happiness and 
of pain that picture would cause his wife. 

It is hardly an exaggeration to say that she had made 
that portrait her idol. She had it copied, and wore it by 
night and by day in a locket of gold ; she slept all night 
with the locket clasped in her hand ; she kissed the hand- 
some face as soon as she woke ; she looked at it fifty times 
during the day, while the passionate love deepened in 
her heart, changing her rapidly from the innocent, simple, 
dreaming child to the passionate, tragic woman, who had 
no life out of her love. How she worked, and toiled, and 
labored to make herself worthy of him — how she studied, 
and thought, and imitated ! 

“Why,” they asked her, often — “why. Miss Derwent, 
do you wish to be so perfect in everything?’ 

Why ! She would look up with a gleam of wonder in 
her beautiful eyes. Why, for his sake, to be sure — to win 
a word of approval from him ; to make him admire her ; 
to fit herself to be, in some degree, a companion for him. 
To have won a word of love from him, she would have 
walked over red-hot plow-shares to her death. Everything 
went to feed this one wild, intense, passionate love, until 
it filled her whole heart, soul, and life — until she had no 
thought, no wish, no desire, no life beyond it. 


192 


MADAME ROUBART^S ADVICE. 


On this bright May morning she stood in the pretty 
room allotted to her, and no fairer picture could have 
been found in all this gay city of London. She had grown 
taller ; her figure was beautifully developed ; it was full of 
grace, and symmetry, and harmony, well-rounded, with 
lovely curves and lines ; her fair hair had grown darker in 
hue — it was glossy and silken, and was wound in rich coils 
round a noble head ; her throat was white as a lily, grace- 
ful and firm; she had arms that would have made a 
sculptor dream, and shoulders that were perfect. She was 
simply but elegantly dressed, the dark silk relieved by 
delicate white lace ; but it was her face that riveted atten- 
tion ; any stranger, seeing it for the first time, stood won- 
dering what was in it. 

The unfinished ^‘sketchy’' beauty of the girl had given 
place to the marvelous loveliness of the woman ; the regu- 
lar features were fully developed, the sweet, sad lips, with 
their hidden dimples, had a new charm, there were new 
depths in the beautiful, sad eyes ; but it was not so much 
the loveliness of the face that attracted one as the story 
told there — the repressed passion, the intensity of love, the 
tragedy. It was essentially a tragic face; looking at it, 
you felt sure that, no matter who the girl was, or what she 
was, there was no common destiny in store for her, no 
common love, no common sorrow ; a beautiful tragic face 
— the lustrous, liquid eyes, full of untold poetry, sadness, 
and love; the sweet lips, most beautiful and most sad 
when she smiled. 

How could she go through life like other people — she 
who lived in cloudland, she whose thoughts were always 
with the husband who had married her with less con- 
sideration than he would have given to the choosing of a 
hunter or a hound — how could she take life quietly and 


MADAME ROUBAET'S ADVICE. 


193 

in the same commonplace measure as those who had no 
tragedy of wasted love and wasted affection ? What did 
they know of life, these people, who simpered and smiled, 
who laughed and sang, who loved one moment and forgot 
the next, who changed their lovers as they did their gloves? 
She smiled in superb disdain. What did they know of 
nights spent in bitter thought and bitter tears, of days 
consumed in a fever of longing, of hours of passionate 
unrest and passionate misery? It was all a dead, bitter 
life — nothing but play for them. 

My de^r Miss Derwent,’' said Madame Roubart to her 
one day, “could you not contrive to look a little less 
earnest? You have an almost tragic force of expression. 
You look more like a Greek goddess — a Greek tragic 
muse, than a nineteenth century young lady.” 

Alice looked up in great alarm. 

“Is it so, madame? Do I look unlike other people? 

•“You always remind me of Tennyson’s .^none, ” replied 
madame, with a bright little laugh. “When I have a few 
moments to spare I like to spend it in studying dear Ten- 
nyson, and iEnone is one of my favorites. I cannot tel) 
why, but whenever I look at you I think of her. ” 

“But why?” asked Alice. “There must always be a 
reason for all that every one does — why is it?” 

‘ ‘ I cannot tell you, only that in my thoughts I give to 
^none tragic depth of sadness and earnestness that you 
most certainly also possess; though of course,” she con- 
tinued, laughingly, “it is all nonsense. I know that you 
have no beautiful Paris, no "evil-hearted Paris,’ to mourn 
— how should you have? You have not met your Paris 
yet.” 

“No one has ever loved me,” replied Alice, with quiet 
dignity, “if that be what you mean.” 


94 


MADAME ROUE ART'S ADVICE. 


“That is just what I mean,” laughed madame; “there- 
fore I wonder why you have that tragic expression — that 
earnest, settled sadness.” 

“Is there no cause of sorrow besides love.?” asked 
Alice. 

“Yes; I should say want of money was a thousand 
times harder to bear ; but you have neither. Miss Derwent, 
so try to look less like a tragic muse. I have often told 
you you cannot make a greater mistake in this world than 
to show emotion, feeling, or sensibility of any kind ; the 
world only comments upon it to laugh at it. • The most 
perfect, well-bred woman,” continued madame, “is the 
one who never shows joy or sorrow, pleasure or pain ; who 
could stand, as many women do stand, with her foot on a 
red-hot plow-share, and not betray the least emotion of 
pain ; women in society have more to bear than that. I 
have seen them smile a languid, indifferent smile, while I 
have known that a red-hot sword had just been plunged 
deep into their hearts. I have seen them smile, talk, 
laugh, sing, when I have known that they would have 
given worlds to have sought refuge even in death. The 
great art of good breeding is absence of all feeling. If 
you wish to make a decided success in society, you must 
take all that intensity fiom your face.” 

“I will try,” said Alice; but the trial was all useless. 
She forgot it in a very few minutes, and looked more like 
a Greek muse than ever. 

“Four years,” she was saying to herself, as she stood 
this morning in her little room. Next year he would be 
back again, and what would happen then .? She had been 
home occasionally during that time, and on each occasion 
had found matters a little improved. The help that Lord 
Carsdale had given to the dancing-master had, to use his 


MADAME ROUBART^S ADVICE. 


195 


own expression, kept his head above water ; the falling off 
of a few pupils had not been a matter of life or death, and 
John Derwent was very grateful for it — he told Alice so. 
Frank was doing well at school, the whole family were 
better off and more at ease. The dancing-master spoke 
highly of Mr. Nelson, as he called him. He declared 
that most of the comfort of his life was owing to his 
generosity, and he was exceedingly grateful for it. Mrs. 
Derwent added that for the first time in her married life 
she had peace of mind. She knew that her house-rent 
and taxes were secure. She professed herself equally grate- 
ful to the same generous man. 

**Your marriage was a fortunate thing for us, Alice,” 
she would say and Alice, her' heart warm with all this 
praise of her husband, forgot for the time being the dis- 
tance, the coldness, the reserve that was between them, 
and wrote him a most rapturous letter of thanks. She 
repented having done that afterward, when week after 
w'eek passed and no answer came. Lord Carsdale had 
read the letter through with a feeling* of something like 
wonder — wonder that any one should think so much of a 
trifle — wonder that Ailie should write so warmly to him. 

He had never answered it, simply because he was en- 
tirely indifferent ; and she had been terribly wounded by 
that neglect. If he had sent a few curt lines, saying. 

You need not thank me for what is to me a trifle too 
insignificant even to remember,” she would have been 
comforted. As it was, twenty times each day her face 
would flush and grow hot at the remembrance of each 
kindly or affectionate word she had used to him. 

“ Neither Rose, nor Frank, nor Hettie is married, nor 
likely to be,” added Mrs. Derwent, with a sigh ; “they will 
never do as well as you have done, Alice.” 


TO WIN A HUSBAND'S HEART. 


I 96 

, While in her heart Alice prayed that the sisters she 
loved and ca^red for would never have a life marred by 
want of love, as hers was. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

TO WIN A husband’s HEART. 

Alice stood listening, her heart beating so fast that its 
rapid pulsations made her tremble; her lips paled, her 
eyes opened wide with a wistful look that was in itself all 
pain. Wonderful words were being spoken near her. 

As usual, she was spending the evening with Madame 
Roubart and Mrs. Howard. Madame was slightly anxious, 
and her faithful follower was desirous of knowing why. 
Then madame told her. She was so well known, and had 
so large a connection, that ladies who wanted governesses 
and companions often asked her to choose for them. One 
had done so now — no less a person than the Countess 
Waldrove of Roseneath, who wanted some young lady to 
live with her as companion. Mrs. Howard listened sym- 
pathizingly, as she always did. 

*‘A companion!” she said. “Why, I thought the 
Countess of Waldrove had an unmarried daughter.” 

“So she has,” replied madame, who knew the peerage 
by heart; “ Lady Linda married the Duke of Claverdon ; 
Lady Gertrude is not married yet. ” 

“ Her beauty must be on the wane,” said Mrs. Howard. 

“No, not at all; on the contrary, I think her far better 
looking now than she was at the age of eighteen. You 


TO wm A HUSBAND HEABT. 


197 


see what Lady Waldrove says : Lady Gertrude spends so 
much of her time with the Duchess of Claverdon that she 
is almost alone ; she wants an amiable, well-bred girl to 
write her letters, read to her, walk and drive with her — in 
short, I should imagine, take a daughter’s place. ” 

“That can soon be done,” said Mrs. Howard. 

“Not quite so soon — she is rather particular. She 
wants a lady ; she could not endure any one but a lady — 
refined, well-educated, innately a lady, you understand. I 
really know no one who could undertake the post.” 

“Lady Waldrove has but one son, I believe,” said Mrs. 
Howard, thoughtfully. 

“No, only one; and he is abroad somewhere with his 
regiment — at Gibraltar, I believe. Lord Vivian Carsdale 
is generally considered one of the handsomest men in 
Englarfd.” 

Alice was so near them that the sound of her husband’s 
name made her grow pale and tremble. What would they 
have said had they known that the beautiful girl with the 
sad, sweet face was Lady Carsdale ? 

“ Handsome is as handsome does,” said Mrs. Howard. 
“I was quite under the impression that he was a great 
flirt, if not worse.” 

How her face flushed as she listened — how she longed 
to defend him — to turn round and tell those who spoke so 
lightly of him that, far from being a flirt, he had married 
her, rather than that she should lose one iota of her fair 
fame, or that she should suffer from the imprudence of 
having taken a day’s holiday with him. Her face flushed, 
her eyes shone brightly, her whole manner expressed the 
most contemptuous and bitter defiance. But there was no 
need to speak — it was madame who took up the cudgels 
for him. 


198 


TO \vm A HUSBAND^ S HEART. 


“You are mistaken,” she said ; “you are evidently con- 
founding Lord Carsdale with some of the other wild young 
heirs. I have never heard a word against him in all my 
life. I think he is exceptionally good.” 

Then madame paused in wonder, for Alice had seized 
her hand and kissed it in a rapture of affection. 

“ What is the matter, my dear child.?” inquired madame, 
who never even dreamed of the real state of the case — 
“what is the matter?” 

“Nothing; but I thought that you looked so nice,” said 
Alice, hardly knowing how to get out of the dilemma. 

Madame laughed. 

“If you undertake to embrace every one who looks 
nice in that rapturous fashion you will have quite enough 
to do. Miss Derwent. You forget all my lessons about 
self-restraint. ” 

Alice laughed also, though she was trembling with 
excitement and impatience. A sudden hope, a sudden 
idea had occurred to her that she might possibly be the 
one who could undertake the situation — companion to the 
Countess of Waldrove — to her husband’s mother; the idea 
made her tremble, the beautiful face grew white with 
emotion ; once — twice she tried to speak, but the effort 
was useless — she could not. Oh, if this could but be — if 
she could secure this position — if she could but see her 
husband’s mother, his sister, his home — if she could but 
win their liking and their love, it would be all plain 
sailing for her afterward ; he would return to find her the 
valued inmate of his own home — his mother dependent 
on her for a hundred little services, his father attached to 
her, his sisters almost intimate with her ; what a marvelous 
change it would be, and he must be pleased at it, because 
it would show him how dearly she loved him after all. 


99 


TO IViy A HUSBAND^ S HEART. 

She was literally faint with the excitement of the thought. 
If it could only be. She would give half her life if this 
might happen ; she would have offered all she had for this 
one chance o" winning her husband’s heart. Then she 
heard madame say : 

“I shall be really grieved if I cannot oblige Lady Wal- 
drove; she always speaks so well for me, and is so good 
in recommending my establishment. I should like to 
please her ; it will not be easy, I fear. Whai do you say. 
Miss Derwent.?” she added, in wonder, as the girl’s beauti- 
ful face came before her. Speak louder, my dear child, 

I am so tired at night that I seldom hear well. ” 

“I was asking you, madame, if you would grant me a 
very great favor,” she said — “if you would permit me to 
apply for this situation at Lady Waldrove’s.?” 

Both ladies looked at her in silent wonder; then 
madame spoke. 

“You, Miss Derwent.?” she said — Why, I 
thought you were looking forward to something very dif- ' 
ferent. ” 

“Dear madame,” said the girl, softly, “you are always 
so kind, and 1 should like it so much.” 

“But I thought,” said madame, “that you had some, 
very definite hopes of going, at some time, into quite a 
high sphere of life.” 

“So I have, madame; I cannot explain; but I should 
be so grateful if you would do this for me, even if I only 
remained for a year. I have reasons of my own that I 
cannot explain. Oh, madame, if you could do it?” 

“You would certainly be the very best person for the 
situation,” said Mrs. Howard — “the very best.” 

“But,” said madame, “in recommending you I lose 
one of my best pupils. ” 


200 


TO WIN A HUSBAND'S HEART, 


‘ ‘ Dear madame, ” she cried, eagerly, * ‘ that need not 
be ; I can make some arrangement — let me still continue, 
after a fashion, to be your pupil.” 

Which speech madame rightly interpreted to mean that 
she would most gladly continue her payment of two hun- 
dred per annum if madame would, help her gain her 
heart’s desire. 

“We will talk it over,” said madame; and they did so, 
the result of which conversation was that on receipt of 
two hundred pounds from Alice madame would furnish 
her with all needful testimonials as to ability, character, 
refinement, etc. , and that she should do her best to secure 
her the situation. 

Mrs. Howard wondered much over it; the girl, she 
thought to herself, must have some strange under-current 
in her life — she must have some strange, settled design in 
wanting to go to this house. Yet, that the design was in 
any way connected with the family themselves, never even 
occurred to her. Alice was almost beside herself with 
joy ; she could not realize that she had really gained her 
heart’s desire — she could not realize the wonder that this 
great dash of sunlight was indeed hers. She settled it all 
with madame— she told her frankly that she did not wish 
those at home to know- what she was doing — they would 
not understand it, nor would they like it; so madame 
promised to receive all her letters and forward them to her, 
and not to let any one know that she was engaged as com- 
panion to Lady Waldrove of Roseneath. Madame prom- 
ised on the day following to write to the countess and tell 
her that she had found the most suitable person it was pos- 
sible to find. 

Then Alice, happier, more elate, more excited than she 


TO WIN A HUSBAND •S HEART, 


201 


had ever been in her life before, withdrew, leaving the two 
ladies alone. 

Madame looked pleased and contented — she had done 
an excellent day’s work ; she had secured some one with 
whom she felt quite sure that the countess would be 
delighted ; besides which she had secured the school fee 
for one year at least of the same person. 

When they were quite alone Mrs. Howard looked at the 
lady principal. 

*‘Doyou think you have decided wisely?” she asked; 
and madame answered : 

“Yes. There is a mystery about Miss Derwent; I see 
it as well as you ; but I will engage that it is no discredit 
to her. She is a lady by nature, if not by birth, and over 
that I am not quite decided. I am sure that she will prove 
a credit to me. ” 

“I hope you are not mistaken,” said Mrs. Howard, 
gravely. “To me there is something mysterious in the 
whole affair. I have a presentiment, too, that we shall 
some time or other understand Miss Derwent’s motive, 
and that we shall not like it.” 

“My dear Mrs. Howard,” laughed madame, “if we 
concerned ourselves in that way, looking so far ahead for 
the result of every event, I am afraid that we should have 
little peace in life. I can see a comfortable kind of busi- 
ness matter before me, and I shall settle it.” 

When madame spoke in that tone Mrs. Howard knew 
quite well all further objections were quite useless. She 
said no more, and the matter was settled. 

On the day following madame wrote to the countess, 
saying that she had a young lady whom she could highly 
recommend, staying now in the house with her, and that 
sbe could only say she seemed to have been made for the 


202 


AILJE^S WELCOME. 


situation. The countess was delighted; she said there 
would be no need lor her to go to town, as she could trust 
to madame’s knowledge of the world, and if she would 
see that the young lady was at Roseneath by the middle 
of May that would do, as they did not intend going to 
London at all that year. 

“You have good news for me?” said Alice, when 
madame entered the room, letter in hand. “You have 
good news ; I can see by your face. I am to go to Rose- 
neath.” 

“Yes,” replied madame. “Lady Waldrove is much 
pleased over it.” 

Then she stopped to wonder at the half-divine light that 
came over Alice Derwent’s beautiful face. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 
ailie’s welcome. 

“I hope I have not done an imprudent thing,” said 
Lucia, Lady Waldrove; “and indeed I see no reason to 
fear it. She is undoubtedly wonderfully beautiful ; but even 
beauty requires gilding in these days.” 

“You are generally right, Lucia, ” said the earl. ‘ ‘Women 
seem to me to have a sixth sense, which tells them what it 
is most fitting to do.” 

The Earl and Countess Waldrove sat together in the 
drawing-room at Roseneath, and the subject under con- 
sideration was the wonderful beauty and gentle grace of 
the new companion, Miss Derwent. She had reached 
Roseneath at the close of a lovely May day, when the air 


A/LIE *S WELCOME. 


203 


was faint with perfume and the daffodil light was dying in 
the sky — when the sweet singing birds had hushed their 
music, and the blossoms fell lightly on the grass. The 
countess had grown impatient for her arrival. To her it 
seemed a simple marvel that she should be compelled to 
exert herself — that she should have to read and answer 
letters, to write notes of invitation, to think of the thousand 
and one details that her children had been accustomed to 
think of for her. She had lived so long in the very height 
of luxurious idleness that all exertion was distasteful to 
her. Then, as she pathetically remarked to her husband, 
when Gertrude was away, there was no one to attend to 
the “dear dogs — no one to take an affectionate interest in 
them.” 

Then Lady Waldrove was a great admirer of fiction. She 
did not care to waste the light of her own eyes in reading ; 
she preferred that some one should read to her. Her 
maid’s voice was coarse — she could only fall asleep to the 
music of a refined, sweet voice. Altogether, between one 
misery and another, my Lady Waldrove longed for the 
arrival of her companion. 

Dinner was over, and the countess had gone out on the 
western terrace to enjoy the last rays of the setting sun. 
My lady affected, at times, a wonderful love of nature; 
the two fat little spaniels, with a considerable amount of 
exertion, contrived to walk on each side of her. One of 
the footmen approached her with considerable diffidence. 

“Miss Derwent has arrived.” 

“Arrived!” said the countess, rousing from her usual 
languor. “Ask her to come to me here at once. Thank 
Heaven I” she said ; “I shall have no more letters to write 
now. The real hard work of life would have destroyed 


me. 


204 


AILIE^S WELCOME. 


Then her ladyship saw a picture that never faded from 
her mind while life lasted. She saw a graceful, girlish 
figure, in a long, trailing dress of rich gray silk ; a beauti- 
ful, tragical face, with deep, earnest blue eyes, fringed with 
long lashes; a sweet, sensitive mouth, red, ripe lips, and 
a lovely dimpled chin ; a head crowned with golden-brown 
hair, on which rested a bonnet that seemed to consist of 
white lace and a rose. 

It was the tragical beauty of the girl’s face that first 
enlisted the countess’ attention and excited her wonder. 
The girl was standing quietly in front of a cluster of red 
camellias, and Lady Waldrove, who had something of an 
artist’s nature, exclaimed at the beauty of the picture.^ 
Then she thought to herself : 

“She is like the picture muse of Greek tragedy. What 
is it that her face says } It is an uncommon story. There 
will be a strange future for that girl, unless Nature has 
written in vain. ” 

She hurried just a little to meet Ailie ; the little spaniels 
looked up at her piteously; they confided in one another 
that if my lady were going on in that kind of way, the 
sooner they gave up the better. In a moment of inspira- 
tion Lord Waldrove had named his wife’s favorites Castor 
and Pollux. Castor whined piteously; it was not to be 
expected that he should run like a dog of common origin 
or common manners. 

“A pound of veal cutlets or cold chicken would not 
make up for this,” he thought, as he quickened his pace 
to keep up with his mistress. 

Lady Waldrove went up to the girl ; she took her hand, 
which was an unusual condescension — she usually received 
strangers with a measured smile, indifferent or pleasant, 
according to their rank. To this beautiful girl, with the 


AILIE^S WELCOME. 


205 


sad, sweet face, her heart warmed. She held out her white, 
jeweled hand in kindly greeting, while the dogs moaned 
in chorus. 

“Welcome to Roseneath, Miss Derwent,” she said ; then 
she wondered why a sudden light came over the beautiful 
face. To Ailie those words had seemed like an omen of 
good fortune. “Have you had a pleasant journey?” asked 
Lady Waldrove ; “the country is looking very beautiful, I 
should imagine. May is one of my favorite months.” 

Then, having exhausted herself, the countess sank on 
one of the pretty garden chairs ; the dogs composed them- 
selves at her feet. She thought it just a little strange that 
the girl remained silent, with that strange look of wonder 
on her face — wonder that was half happy delight and awe. 
Madame had expressly stated that she was a quiet but 
entertaining companion. 

“Perhaps,” thought her ladyship, “she is shy — uncom- 
fortable with a person of rank. I must set her at her 
ease.” So she talked easily and kindly, until the white, 
startled face grew calm and still. 

What would she, the proudest woman in all England, 
the haughtiest -peeress that wore a coronet — what would 
she have said had she known that this fair-faced girl sitting 
so quietly by her side was her son’s wife? — wife to the 
brilliant, handsome young heir, whom she loved as she 
loved no one else on earth. Could she have guessed it, 
her anger would have been sc great she would have dashed 
the beauty from her face, and have trampled it out. 

As it was, the girl’s delicate beauty charmed 'her ; her 
graceful loveliness and quiet elegance were above all praise. 
Then, when the countess thought her lord would have 
roused himself from his after-dinner meditations, she was 
anxious that he should see her companion. Lord Wal- 


2o6 


■ AILIE^S WELCOME. 


drove would have been less than human had he failed to 
admire her. When she had sat with them for some min- 
utes, the countess bethought herself that probably her 
young companion \^ould require rest and refreshment. 

“You will like to go to your room,'’ she said. “ Per- 
haps you will feel tired to-night ; if not, I should be glad 
if you will read to me. I have been so long without any 
one to do anything for me, that I am quite exhausted. ” 

It was sufficient that Lady Waldrove should express a 
wish for Ailie to feel ready to yield her life rather than 
refuse it. That night, although she was so tired that the 
exertion of keeping her eyes open pained her, she read, 
hour after hour, until the countess fell into a deep, balmy 
sleep. 

Lord Waldrove himself was slightly surprised ; he was 
accustomed to the patrician beauty of ladies of his own 
rank ; he was accustomed to the handsome, high-bred 
faces of his wife and daughter ; but this delicate loveliness, 
this fair, half-sad beauty, was new to iiim. From the 
patrician faces around him all particular expression was 
banished ; in this he, in common with others, had the 
foreshadowing of a tragedy; there was an intensity of 
earnestness about it, .a wonderful pathos. It was not so 
much the loveliness of the face which distracted him as it 
was the strange, earnest, wistful expression. He told Lady 
Waldrove he was not quite sure if she had done right by 
bringing a beautiful, tragical-looking young creature like 
that to the house ; she was too attractive. But the countess 
smiled with languid scorn. Who was there to attract.? 

“Unless,” she added, with a little gleam of malice — 
“unless you feel that your heart is in danger, or, more 
properly speaking, your fancy; in that case, of course ” 

But Lord Waldrove laughed, ;as the countess had in- 


AILIE'S WELCOME, 


207 


tended him to do, and there was no more said on the 
matter. Ailie fulfilled her duties so faithfully that Lady 
Waldrove congratulated herself on having found a treasure. 

Gertrude and Linda were always devoted to me,” she 
said to the earl, ‘^but this girl seems to live but to please 
me.” 

If she had known that Ailie was, after all, but trying to 
win her love, and that because she was her son’s wife, then 
Lucia, Countess of Waldrove, would have formed ^a very 
different idea of her. Ailie was so patient. When the 
countess wearied of one book, she took up another; if 
Floss, the old-established favorite, wanted an airing, she 
was never annoyed at having to take him ; if Castor and 
Pollux, the new favorites, disputed, she was always ready 
to take the part of one or the other. The countess was 
altogether pleased. When Lady Gertrude, quite expecting 
either a long lecture or an indignant denial, wrote to ask 
if she might remain for some weeks longer with her sister, 
the Duchess of Claverdon, the countess answered yes, by 
all means ; she had found a perfect treasure in her com- 
panion, and so hardly missed her daughter. 

“Indeed, my dear,” she said to Ailie ; “you are almost 
like a daughter to me ; you seem to know my wishes and 
thoughts beforehand — you anticipate them very often. My 
child,” she continued, looking keenly at her, “you have 
tears in your eyes 1 How is that?” 

The beautiful eyes were dimmed ; there was the slightest 
quiver on the mouth that was beautiful enough to have 
belonged to a Greek goddess. 

“Tears in your eyes,” repeated the countess. “Now, 
why is that, I wonder? You have a mother of your own, 

I think I have heard you say ?” 

“I have a mother whom I love very much,” says Ailie ; 


2o8 


AILIEyS WELCOME, 


and there comes to her a vision of the languid, helpless, 
fine-lady mother, who has made such a hopeless mess of 
her life. 

Lady Waldrove said no more, but she thought often 
why it was that her young companion's eyes had grown 
dim with tears. 

Lord Waldrove was not long in learning to appreciate 
Ailie's good qualities* 

beautiful face is the least of her charms," he said 
one day to the countess. **We have patrician daughters 
— high-bred, elegant women — but we have no such affec- 
tionate child as this. " 

He liked her very much. 

‘ ‘ Will you read the leading article to me ?" he would 
ask. My eyes are not what they have been.” 

And he would yield himself to the delight of listening 
to one of the sweetest and most musical voices ever heard ; 
indeed, it was a strain of finest music to him. He would 
say to himself that no bird singing in the happy freedom 
of its woodland home — no queen of song, trained by the 
great masters of the art — could eclipse, or even compare, 
with this girl, who was quite finkhown to fame. The 
sweet, soft music would gradually overcome him, and his 
eyes would close. Then Ailie would lay down the paper 
and look eagerly into his face, watching to see if there 
was any resemblance between it and the handsome face of 
the husband who did not love her, yet had married her to 
save her from blame. 


A SURPRISE. 


2C(.) 


CHAPTER XXX. 

A SURPRISE. 

Ailie owned to herself afterward, when she became more 
accustomed to everything, that she had gone through 
emotion enough to have almost killed an ordinary woman. 
With that intense, passionate love breathing in her heart, 
surging in her brain, thrilling every nerve, every pulse, it 
had been no light thing for her to see for the first time her 
husband’s home and his friends. When she first saw 
Roseneath her courage failed her; it seemed to her almost 
impossible that she should have married the lord of such 
a princely home. Neither in her travels or in her dreams 
had she ever imagined a place so stately or so fair ; and 
she — well, if right meant right, she 'who entered those 
grand, historic walls as the humble companion of their 
proud mistress would be one day mistress there herself — 
must, if all be true, be one day Countess Waldrove of 
Roseneath. 

She could not realize it ; the bare idea made her heart 
beat with slow, burning pain — made her face blanch and 
her lips quiver ; she could not realize it. She said to her- 
self often and often that she must be mad, that she must 
have dreamed of this marriage, that it could not really 
have taken place — there was something almost incongru- 
ous in the idea. She, Ailie Derwent, the dancing-mas- 
ter’s daughter, could not actually be Lady Carsdale, wife 
of the heir of Roseneath. She looked at times half in 
wonder, half in awe, around her. All the gorgeous plate, 
the superb pictures, the statues, the magnificent orna- 


210 


A SURPRISE. 


ments, the bric-a-brac, the Wedgewood, the old china, the 
rare books — was it, could it be possible that all this 
should fall to her — that she, reared in poverty, used to the 
plainest of living, the plainest of dress — was it possible 
that one day she should be mistress of all this wealth? 
She never even tried to picture herself as mistress of Rose- 
neath ; her imagination could not go so far. She would 
look sometimes at the servants when they seemed slow to 
do her bidding, and wonder what would they say or think 
if they knew who she really was. 

But among all her dreams and visions she never saw the 
future — she never imagined her husband returning, taking 
her by the hand and introducing her to his friends; the 
future to her was always blurred, indistinct. She had 
always a faint foreboding that something would happen — a 
vague idea that in some strange way this marriage of 
hers would turn out to be a mistake — that it would dis- 
solve into thin air. Yet there was the wedding-ring fas- 
tened round her neck by a slender gold chain — nothing 
could do away with that. She loved him so entirely that 
each moment of her life seemed, as it were, to hold it all. 
She neither looked to the past or the future. She lived in 
the grand love of the present. 

It was a grand, noble passion, this love of hers, such as 
has been sung in old Grecian legends, and in Roman 
tragedies; a love that absorbed her heart and soul. He 
was the world to her; great events passed, far and near; 
she thought nothing of them. The world for her meant 
Vivian Carsdale; outside him all was blank, unmeaning 
space. She met many people, but she never even seemed 
to see them ; that one face, the dark-haired, dark-eyed 
lover, filled the universe for her. She loved him with a 
wonderful love ; there was something half divine in its 


A SUJ^PRISE. 


211 


intensity ; only a noble woman could be capable of such 
a love. The fire of passion does not touch ignoble souls; 
they are incapable of it. If he had said to her, “Ailie, 
give me your life,” she would have given it to him. She 
had made him her king and her master, lord of all the 
wide earth, lo. d of her own soul. She lived in the 
thought of him, in the memory of those few weeks they 
had spent together when they had been good friends, 
nothing more. It was the love that makes tragedies, that 
saves souls — the grandest passion that is given to man. 
But — and the punishment comes swiftly after the sin — she 
made him her idol. She gave to him the love that a 
“Divine law” says shall be given to God alone. She 
made him her idol. What wonder if she found the feet 
of clay — if the swift, unerring punishment of idolatry fell 
upon her. 

As the summer days, all beautiful with roses and dew, 
passed on, she became more accustomed to her surround- 
ings, more habituated to the thought that she was in the 
heart of her husband’s home. One day a hard trial came 
to her; she heard the earl and countess talking about a 
picture that was expected home — some injury or other that 
had been done to the frame, and it had been sent to Lon- 
don. The earl wished to have it in the dining-room, the 
countess said no; it must be placed in her own room, 
where she could look at it as long as she liked, and when 
she liked. The earl, in his good-natured fashion, gave 
way. 

Ailie did not pay much attenion, but she noticed the 
arrival of the large packing-case ; she heard the confusion 
of the careful unpacking, and then, engrossed in some 
little duties for the countess, she thought no more of it, 
until she went, us usual, to Lady Waldrove's room, her 


212 


A SURPRISE. 


hands filled with roses, gathered just as that dainty Wy 
loved them, of all hues, with plenty of green leaves, and 
all shining still with the morning dew. 

During the whole season of roses Lady Waldrove had 
them brought to her freshly gathered and fragrant every 
day. 

Ailie entered,, as usual, and was met by the countess, 
whose face had in it a shade more of animation. Floss 
tried to bark, but failed in the attempt. Castor and 
Pollux greeted her with scorn, as though they would ask 
why was she busying herself with roses when two dogs 
required looking after. 

“Miss Derwent,’ said the countess, “you have some 

artistic taste, I know What beautiful roses ! Pray 

ring for some water; not one leaf must fade. Lord Wal- 
drove and I cannot agree about this picture. I want to 
have it where the western sun-beams fall on its face ; my 
lord would have it facing the south. What say you?” 

Without a moment’s warning or preparation she was 
looking on her husband’s handsome pictured face — the 
bright, debonair,' ndblQ face, with its dark eyes and beauti- 
ful mouth. It was a wonderful picture; the eyes were 
full of light, and seemed to look with a conscious expres- 
sion. . 

Lady Waldrove uttered a little cry, for the roses that the 
young girl carried in her hands were dropping on the 
ground, and Ailie stood, white, motionless, with parted 
lips and eager eyes befg^ that portrait 

“Well?” said the.courl^ss, impatiently; she could not 
endure that any one should keep her waiting. “You 
have dropped all those beautiful roses — no, do not stoop 
for them ; never mind them ; I am waiting to hear what 
you think about the picture. Should it not hang facing 


A SUJiPRISE. 


213 


the west? I like to lie there on my favorite couch and 
watch the setting sun lighting up my boy’s face; some- 
times the effect was so beautifubthat I could have fancied 
he smiled, but it was only the golden light falling lower 
and lower. Ah, what is this?” 

For suddenly, as she had let the roses fall, Ailie fell 
herself prone on the ground. The sight of the face she 
worshiped with such mad, wild idolatry seemed to rob her 
of all strength, her limbs failed her, even the breath 
seemed to freeze and die on her lips — ceiling and floor 
met together in one whirling rush ; then she went down 
with a low cry, and lay quite still and motionless. 

“Heaven bless me!” cried the countess, “the girl has 
fainted, I believe.” 

« 

The earl hastened to her. 

“I call this taking a liberty in my room which I never 
remember any one to have taken before. Neither Ger- 
trude nor Linda would have done such a thing, Stephen.” 

“Shall I ring?” asked the earl, helplessly. 

This combination of circumstances was rather too much 
for him. 

There was a sound from the lips of that prostrate 
figure, and Lady Waldrove, bending down, heard Ailie 
• say : 

‘ ‘ I am very sorry ; I did not faint ; the floor and the 
ceiling seemed to meet, and I fell. I am very sorry.” 

The earl raised her gently. Something in that sweet, 
white face seemed to touch him. 

“It is not your fault, of course,” replied the countess. 
“I have quite a horror of invalids. ” 

“I am not at all an invalid,” said Ailie, gently. 

“Perhaps,” interposed the earl, “perhaps the heat of 
the sun was too great, or the fragrance of the roses ” 


214 


A SURPRISE. 


Ailie looked up at him with eyes that were dim with 
tears. She longed to tell him that looking at those dark 
eyes, which held all heaven for her, had made her strength 
fail her. She thought to herself that if the sight of his 
portrait touched her so, what would happen if she saw 
himself. 

However, that question could not be entertained now. 
Lord Waldrove had rung the bell, and a maid entered, 
who picked up the roses ; and the countess, with an 
injured face, said : 

“If you have quite recovered, Miss Derwent, and have 
any opinion at all to give on this matter, I shall be glad to 
hear it. ” 

Ailie, trying to steady her trembling limbs, looked at 
the picture. Oh ! beautiful eyes, if they could but close 
or turn from her, or do anything except gaze at her with 
that fixed, cold brightness. She conquered herself at last, 
and spoke without any seeming effort. 

“I think it would be far better facing the west,’’ -she 
said; “the sunbeams would certainly brighten and beau- 
tify it.” 

Yet as she spoke she thought to herself that nothing on 
earth could add to the beauty of that face; it wanted 
neither sunlight nor anything else in her eyes. 

So it was settled that the portrait of Vivian, Lord Cars- 
dale, the one idol of his mother s heart, the one love of 
his father’s heart, the heir of Roseneath, the hope and 
pride of his ancient race, that his portrait should face the 
west, where the sunbeams would die away while lighting 
to greater beauty the splendor of his face. 

“I hope,” said the countess, as Ailie left the room, 
“that after all my hopes, desires, and wishes. Miss Der- 


A ^^SOCIETY" HOME, 


215 


went will not turn out a failure; I really do not like 
invalids. ” 

“There is not much fear,” said her husband; “the sun 
is warm, and she had been out in it for some time.” 

Neither of them dreamed of connecting her sudden 
illness with their son’s portrait. What would they have 
said had they even ever so faintly guessed the truth ? 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

A “society” home. 

Lady Waldrove was reading a letter that seemed to give 
her some satisfaction. When it was finished she placed it 
on the table. Floss at once knocked it down ; Castor and 
Pollux commenced to fight over it; the countess looked 
on with a dreamy smile. 

“I am not quite sure,” she said, “that my little pets 
must have that letter. It is from my daughter. Lady Ger- 
trude ; she returns this week. ” 

It was a pretty home picture — the light, beautiful room 
was flooded with sunlight, the air was warm with the odor 
of flowers ; there was a musical ripple from the little foun- 
tain that stood in the midst of the white hyacinths. The 
countess, in her costly morning-wrapper, with her pretty, 
picturesque head-dress of white Mechlin lace, lay on her 
favorite couch ; Ailie, looking the very ideal of youth and 
fair loveliness, sat reading to her. There had been many 
interruptions — a cup of fragrant cocoa, such as the count- 
ess dearly loved ; then letters, and this one letter had 
pleased the haughty, dainty lady. She had grown so ac- 


2i6 


A ^^SOCIETY^' HOME. 


customed to Ailie that she spoke out most of her thoughts 
quite frankly before her. 

“I am glad Gertrude is returning,” she said; “Floss 
is very fond of her, and she is really kind to him. We 
shall have time for more reading if she takes the dogs 
from you.” 

Ailie never could remember quite what was said, but she 
pleaded that none of the duties which were so pleasant to 
her might be taken from her. Lady Waldrove smiled as , 
she answered; then, looking with eyes of keen, curious" 
criticism at her, she said : 

“Your hands are trembling. Miss Derwent. How 
strangely you seem to unnerve yourself at times. Why 
stiould you tremble because my daughter. Lady Gertrude 
Carsdale is coming home? Do you know that although I 
like you, you are rather incomprehensible.” 

The beautiful eyes raised lo hers had in them a mute 
' entreaty: She would fain have said, “ Lady Gertrude, is 

my husband’s sister, and for his sake I want to win her 
love ;” but she dare not utter such words. She knew that 
this coming home of Lady Gertrude was important to her; 
much might depend on her liking, and Ailie was already 
thinking how she could best win that liking. 

' , The day arrived when the lady she had so long desired 

. ' to see came home. She was reading a French romance 

, to the countess when the carriage drove up to the door. 

She rose instinctively from her seat, thinking, with her 
usual delicate sense of right, that the first interview be- 
tween mother and daughter, after such a long absence, 

’.V should be private. 

“Where are you going?” asked the countess, as she 
- laid down her book. 


A SOCIETY^' HOME, 


217 

Ailie blushed, as though she had been detected in some- 
thing wrong. 

“I thought perhaps you would prefer being alone to 
receive Lady Gertrude,” she stammered. 

“ My dear Miss Derwent,” said the countess, languidly, 

never think for yourself; it is an inconvenient and rather 
exhausting custom. You do not suppose that Lady Ger- 
trude would dream of rushing into my room before her 
traveling-dress was changed, do you? I should not pardon 
such a breach of etiquette.” 

“I did not think at all,” replied Ailie, humbly. 

When my daughter has attended to her toilet, she will 
see me. She may even wait until the dressing-bell rings; 
even then you need not absent yourself. If I wish you to 
leave me, I shall not fail to tell you so.” 

There was nothing for it but to resume the book ; but 
while she read mechanically, she was wondering what kind 
of mother and daughter were these, so near, yet so far 
apart — who cared so little for each other that, after so many 
weeks of absence, the daughter did not rush into her 
mother s presence. And there came to her a sudden sink- 
ing of the heart as she saw and imagined the fact that, 
after all, the lives of such people were not regulated by 
their affections. If Lady Waldrove exacted so much cere- 
mony, and cared to receive so little affection from her 
daughter, what would her daughter-in-law expect or re- 
ceive ? She read mechanically, the shadows deepening on 
her face and in her heart. Love was to have played such 
an important part in her little drama, and now it seemed 
to her that love had no hold on these people — they simply 
ignored it. 

An hour later she heard the rustle of silk, and then a 
gentle touch at the door. 


2i8 


A SOCIETY** HOME. 


‘"Come in,” said the countess, languidly. 

Then Lady Gertrude entered the room. Ailie looked at 
her with admiration. She was not what the world would 
call a beautiful woman, but she had a beautiful figure, fine 
dark eyes, fine dark hair, and a beautiful mouth ; she was 
patrician from the crown of her proud head to her pretty, 
arched foot — high-bred, elegant, with a sauve grace of 
manner. Ailie almost devoured her with her eager glance. 
Lady Gertrude went gently to her mother’s couch ; they 
touched each other’s hands with a gentle, cold touch, then 
Lady Gertrude laid her lips for half a moment on her 
mother’s brow. Ailie thought of the hour’s kissing and 
caressing that followed her mother’s absence from them, 
and wondered. 

‘‘You are looking well, Gertrude,” said the countess. 

“I am well, mamma, I thank you,” was the reply. 

Then Floss began to bark ; Castor and Pollux followed 
suit. 

“Your little friends are pleased to see me, mamma,” 
said Lady Gertrude. 

Then the countess, turning languidly to her daughter, 
said : 

“This is Miss Derwent, my companion. I wrote to 
you about her. ” 

Ailie blushed as two beautiful dark eyes, so like Vivian’s, 
looked into her own. Lady Gertrude did not hold out 
her hand, but she bowed, with a kindly smile, and Ailie 
said to herself that in time she should win her liking, then 
she would have one friend secured at least The arrival 
of Lady Gertrude made some little difference to her — she 
was no longer the sole companion of the countess. Poor 
Ailie ! the i^ore titne ghe passed with those two ladies, the 
jnore she listened to their conversation, the more hopeless 


A SOCIETY'^ HOME. 


219 


she grew. They talked over every one they knew, who 
married well or badly, who was rich, who was honored; 
but in all their conversations no one ever heard the word 
‘ ‘ love. ” If, indeed, any love-match came on the tapis^ it 
was covered with ridicule, laughed at, treated with the 
utmost contempt; the people who had contracted it were 
looked upon, at the very least, as harmless lunatics — not 
vicious, merely harmless. Love itself was ignored, never 
mentioned ; income, title, diamonds, rent-roll, castles — all 
these were continually taken into account ; love never. 

Ailie could picture the fine satire in the face of Lady 
Waldrove at the bare idea of love. 

They were speaking one day of a very distant relative 
of the earl’s; Lady Gertrude had met him in London, 
and was pleased with him. She was telling her mother 
about him. 

“He was worth knowing once,” Slid the countess, “I 
admit; but he has lost himself by his foolish marriage.” 

“Whom did he marry?” asked Lady Gertrude. 

“A nobody — the daughter of some country parson — a 
girl without fortune or connection. He might have made 
himself by a good marriage — he lost himself. Do not lose 
your time, Gertrude, in speaking of him.” 

“But, mamma, his wife is a lady.” 

“My dearest child,” replied the countess, languidly, 
“in these days a butcher’s wife, a house-maid, a poor, 
struggling dressmaker, calls herself a lady. Do not waste 
your time, Gertrude; I shall never invite him here.” 

And Ailie, listening, thought to herself what chance had 
she. This other girl of whom they were speaking was a 
minister’s daughter, and in her simplicity she had always 
thought that quite a patent of nobility. What could, or 
what would they say to a dancing-master’s daughter? If 


220 


A *^SOCIETY^^ HOME. 


they only knew ! How little hope there was for her, 
after all. 

As day by day she listened, her hopes seemed, in some 
vague way, to grow fainter ; it was all the world, the vain, 
cold, cruel world ; it was all Mammon, nothing else — they 
ignored love. The honor for which the boy-heir had sacri- 
ficed so much was for them but a sound; so her hopes 
grew fainter. There was no room for love in these stately 
patrician walls — no room. 

“We must have some visitors, mamma,” said Lady Ger- 
trude, one morning; “ I have never seen the Abbey look 
more beautiful. I told you that the Pierponts were coming 
for August.” 

The countess sighed. 

“I have never seen anything like that beautiful Lady 
Ethel,” she said. “She is the loveliest woman in Eng- 
land, without exception ; and how strange it seems, Ger- 
trude, that, with all those brilliant offers, she has never 
married. ” 

Lady Gertrude smiled significantly. 

“I have my own opinion, mamma, and if it be as I 
think, it is not strange at all. ” 

Lady Waldrove seemed to understand. She raised her 
eyebrows. 

“That was the desire of my heart,” she said; “but he ' 
was provokingly stupid.” 

Ailie listened with a heart aching, she hardly knew why, 
with bitter pain. Who was she, this brilliant Lady Ethel ? 
and what was she coming for? 


LADY ETHEL. 


221 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

LADY ETHEL. 

** Lady Ethel Pierpontl” How many times Alice said 
that name over and over again to herself— it had a charm 
for her that she could neither express nor understand ; the 
echo of it seemed in some mysterious manner to fall on 
her heart, to stir its depths — yet she had no association 
with the name. She gave her most eager attention to all 
that was said of Lady Ethel ; from it she gathered that she 
was young, beautiful, a wealthy heiress, high bom, dearly 
loved, graceful, accomplished ; in fact every conceivable 
gift of Heaven was hers. Alice listened, not with envy, 
but in wonder; it seemed more than strange that one 
should have so much, others so little. She longed to ask 
Lady Gertrude about her, but that she dared r^ot do. She 
had been at home some little time now, yet Alice knew 
her no better than on the first day she returned. . Lady 
Gertrude was kind to her; when they were together she 
talked to her about the weather, the dogs. Lady Wal- 
drove's health, any of her duties, but t>f herself never. If 
Alice made any inquiry as to her health, she answered it 
briefly ; of her likes and dislikes, of her friends and foes, 
of her own thoughts and ideas she never by any chance 
uttered a single word. She was kind to Alice ; considerate 
for her even ; but between Lady Gertrude Carsdale, daugh- 
ter of the Earl of Waldrove, and Alice Derwent, the paid 
companion, there was the difference you understand of 
the whole world — a difference, in the opinion of Lady 
Gertrude, that nothing could ever bridge over. As her 


222 


LADV ETHEL. 


mother’s companion, Lady Gertrude was gentle and even 
considerate to Alice Derwent, but she would no more have 
dreamed of equality with her, of talking familiarly to her, 
of exchanging opinions with her, than she would have 
dreamed of flying — so that Alice could ask no questions 
of her. The oftener she heard the name of Lady Ethel 
the more anxious she grew; yet, in what way possible 
could it affect her.?^ She saw that the countess set great 
store by this coming .visitor ; all possible preparations were 
made for her. We will do that when Lady Ethel comes.” 
“We will wait for Lady Ethel.” “We must see what 
Lady Ethel thinks.” These were the kind of words that 
Alice heard continually. The finest suite of rooms in the 
Abbey were set aside for Lady Ethel. Alice sighed as she 
listened ; could it ever be within the realms of possibility 
that such care would ever be taken of her? Ah, no, not 
even were it known that she was the heir’s wife — not even 
then. 

It was the beginning of August then, and no lovelier 
month had ever dawned ; it seemed as though nature were 
holding a sweet and special carnival of its own; the sky 
was brilliantly blue ; the sun shone with a brilliant light, 
yet it was not so warm as to be unpleasant ; the air was 
filled with odors from the green, shady woods, the fruit- 
laden orchards, the gay flower-gardens; the birds sang 
jubilant music; the lovely, laughing corn-fields were golden; 
the harvest moon made the whole world bright and light. 
So fair a month — nothing could have been fairer, and Lady 
Ethel was coming, she heard them say. Well, why need 
she trouble ? Lady Ethel was nothing to her. Why this 
passionate, keen sense of unrest? Why this hot, angry, 
wretched leeling whenever her name was mentioned ? More 
than once, when she entered the room, she found the 


LADY ETHEL. 


223 


countess and Lady Gertrude deep in a discussion,, which 
ceased when she appeared; more than once a subdued 
conversation took place between them, during which she 
heard the name that thrilled her with such strange, sad 
pain. 

Lady Ethel Pierpont will be here this evening, Miss 
Derwent, ” said the countess, one bright morning. ‘ ‘ Should 
you mind taking Floss for a walk? She does not seem 
well. I shall have some arrangements to make for my 
visitors, so that I shall not read this afternoon.” 

For the haughty, dainty, luxurious countess to disturb 
herself for any visitors was a thing unheard of — a thing 
unprecedented, and Alice judged of the importance of 
Lady Ethel from that. 

“She would never disturb herself for me, were I twenty 
times her son s wife,” thought Alice. 

She was very patient. She tied a long blue ribbon round 
Floss, and set out for a long ramble. She went through 
the corn-fields, where the ripe wheat stood in huge sheaves 
— where the lark rose soaring into the blue sky — thinking 
so little of the lovely surroundings, and so much of the 
dark-browed husband who had never been her lover. Floss 
pulled in vain at the ribbon ; Alice almost forgot the little 
dog’s existence. It walked on with a keen sense of dig- 
nified injury very-amusing to behold, although it was well 
that the countess was spared that sight. Thinking, ynder 
the golden sunlight, of the handsome, princely young 
husband who had married her, contrary to all the tradi- 
tions of his race, just to save her fair fame from the faintest 
shadow, she stood with her fairest face raised to the dark- 
blue sky, crying out, with a pa.ssionate voice, that Heaven 
would give her his love. 


224 


LADY ETHEL. 


“ It is mine/’ she cried, with a long-drawn sob — mine, 
because I am his wife. Oh ! give it to me.” 

Then, when the passion of words and tears had worn 
themselves away, she went back home through the sunlit 
corn-fields. 

That evening the Countess of Pierpont, with her beauti- 
ful daughter, arrived. Alice saw all the eclat^ the cere- 
mony, the preparation; had the Queen of England been 
coming, there could not have been greater enthusiasm. It 
was just before dinner that she saw her, and Alice never 
forgot the impression made on her by that first sight of 
one who was certainly the fairest of her time. She was in 
the drawing-room, looking for a fan that the countess 
fancied she had left there, when the door opened, admit- 
ting what she thought at first sight was a vision. 

A tall, beautiful, golden-haired girl, who looked more 
like a superb lily than anything else ; her dress of white 
silk, artistically trimmed with scarlet poppies and golden 
wheat ears, swept the ground; she wore a costly set of 
rubies — rubies that encircled her white throat and white 
arms, that glanced like points of flame in her golden hair. 
Her face was so unutterably, so wonderfully beautiful, that 
as Alice looked at it her lips parted and her eyes opened 
more widely than they had ever done before. A regally 
beautiful woman, with the proud bearing of an empress, 
yet with the grace and sweetness of a flower ; lips on which 
the fate of a nation might have hung, yet sweet as the 
opening bud of a pomegranite; graceful, high-bred, and 
elegant; in all her life Alice had never ever dreamed of 
such a w'oman. She swept, with her imperial grace, up 
the long drawing-room, and as she watched her, Alice 
thought that, above all others, this brilliant woman was the 
very ideal of a mistress for Roseneath. Just such delicate 


LADY ETHEL. 


225 


grace, just such spiritual loveliness, just such queenly dig- 
nity befitted one who should reign in those stately, time- 
honored walls. 

Lady Ethel believed herself quite alone ; she did not see 
Alice. She swept up to the other end of the room and 
stood before the great western window ; the sunbeams fell 
on her golden head, on the splendid rubies, on the lovely 
face, with its exquisite tints, on the graceful figure, on the 
gleam of the white, trailing silk ; she stood there, her 
white jeweled hands clasped, looking intently on the mar- 
velous landscape that could be seen from the window. 
Alice watched her intently the while; suddenly a warm 
flush overspread her face, a lovely light came into her eyes. 
Alice heard her murmur some low words to herself ; then, 
thinking it better to make her presence known, she moved 
one of the books on the table. Lady Ethel gave one swift 
glance round, and as her eyes fell on Alice, a crimson 
flame burned her face. 

Alice came forward, and they stood looking at each 
other in silence — the two whose lives were so strangely in- 
terwoven, A greater contrast could not have been, although 
they were both fair of face, with golden hair ; the one had 
the soft, patrician, proud loveliness of a queen, the other 
the sad, passionate beauty of a Greek muse. 

Alice spoke first. 

“ I beg your pardon,” she said ; “lam afraid I startled 
you. ” 

“Not at all,” replied Lady Ethel, courteously. “Did 
you hear what I said? I have a most unfortunate habit of 
talking to myself.” 

“No,” said Alice, “ I did not hear.*' 

Then Lady Ethel smiled, and looked relieved. She 
glanced keenly at the beautiful girl whose dress of gray 


226 


LADY ETHEL, 


silk, with its silver fringe, was at once so simple and 
elegant. 

“You are one of Lady Wald rove’s visitors?” she said. 
“Pray, pardon my speaking so freely to you, but you 
looked just like a beautiful statue that I have seen some- 
where of ‘ Clytie,’ come to life.” 

“A Greek statue,” said Alice. “ People are always tell- 
ing me that I resemble something they have seen in 
Greece. But I am forgetting — I am not one of Lady 
Waldrove’s visitors; I am her companion.” 

There was a scarcely perceptible shade of difference in 
Lady Ethel’s manner ; a colder light came into her eyes — 
her white, jeweled hand was drawn back. 

“ Indeed ! I did not know Lady Waldrove had a com- 
panion. You like Roseneath, do you not? I think it is 
one of the loveliest places in England.” 

The dark -blue eyes were raised to hers with so strange 
an expression, that Lady Ethel paused. Alice longed to 
say: 

“I am something more than Lady Waldrove’s com- 
panion — lam Lady Alice Carsdale, wife of the earls heir.” 

She longed to say it, but no sound escaped her lips, no 
word betrayed her; only the peculiar expression of her 
eyes told that strange thoughts were in her mind ; then she 
answered, calmly : 

“ I admire Roseneath very much, but it is the only place 
of the kind that I have ever seen. ” 

“I need hardly introduce myself,” said Lady Ethel; 
“you have so few visitors here just at present, that you 
must know who I am.” 

Alice smiled. 

“ I have heard your name so often,” she replied ; “Lady 


COMING HOME. 


227 

Ethel Pierpont has been the chief subject of conversation 
with us for many days past.” 

Lady Ethel gave a beautiful, well-pleased smile. 

“They are very fond of me at Roseneath,” she said, 
“and I return the compliment” 

She was far more free and familiar in her manner with 
Alice than was Lady Gertrude ; yet here was the same im- 
perceptible something, the same shade of manner that ex- 
pressed so clearly and so forcibly the distance between 
them that nothing could bridge over, nothing could lessen. 
And that was Alice's first introduction to the beautiful 
with whom she was to struggle for a ring. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

COMING HOME. 

Several other visitors arrived the next day ; among them 
was the Marquis of Keemes, one. of the most eligible men 
in England — youi^, good-looking, after a sturdy Saxon 
style, wealthy,' and generous. Already most of the mat- 
rons in Belgravia had taken a kindly interest in him ; they 
had most considerately advised him to marry while he was 
young, and many of the Belgravian belles had kindly 
given him an opportunity of ranging himself in the or- 
derly ranks of married men. But the marquis was wary ; 
he had never had but one love; he never intended to have 
another; he had given his heart, soul, mind, and entire 
love to Lady Ethel Pierpont. She had tcld him it was 
useless — that she did not love him — that she should never 


223 


COMING HOME. 


marry him — that it was even annoying to her to be so con- 
tinually followed and haunted by him. He had but one 
answer for it. 

“ I cannot help it, Lady Ethel,’’ he would say. I am 
very sorry indeed to vex you — sorry to disagree with you ; 
but no man can fight against his fate, and mine is to 
follow you. ” 

He was so persevering she could do nothing with him ; 
whenever he knew that she was going anywhere he man- 
aged in some way to get an invitation. Lady Pierpont 
spoke of him with resigned despair ; she had seen her will- 
ful, beautiful daughter refuse so many eligible men that 
she felt sure she would refuse the marquis. 

* ‘ Pray do not speak to me about it, ” she would say to 
those of her lady friends who offered to congratulate her; 
“do not mention it. My daughter says she' will never 
marry, and I begin to think she means to keep her word. 
It will not bear speaking of.’’ 

How he managed it no one quite knew, but it was 
managed ; he procured an invitation to Roseneath. Lady 
Ethel’s lovely face darkened at first when she saw him ; 
then she laughed, and Lord Keemes did not quite like the 
sound of her laughter. 

“Never mind,” he said to himself; “there is no diffi- 
culty in this world so great but that patience and persever- 
ance can overcome it. My dainty, lovely darling laughs 
at me ; but the lime shall come, I swear, when she shall 
laugh no more — only love me.” 

Every one at Roseneath was delighted with the marquis ; 
his handsome Saxon face, the light in his bonnie blue 
eyes, the frank, free smiles on his beautiful mouth, the gay 
ring of his laughter, the frank, cheery sound of his voice, 
made friends for him everywhere. People took a great 


COMING HOME. 


229 


interest in his love-story ; they wondered much whether he 
would win in the end, or whether the lovely lady, who sent 
away all her other lovers, would send him also. 

There were several other visitors. Lady Manton, a 
pretty, wealthy widow, who was determined to make the 
most of a world she felt very happy in; Sir Joseph and 
Lady Legard; Miss Bell, a superb brunette, whose chief 
fault was that she thought the world ought to be content 
with the beauty of her face and not expect her to talk ; 
then came Captain Moore, Lord Savage’s eldest son ; a 
very well-selected party. 

Then for the first time Alice saw something of gay life. 
She saw balls, dinner-parties, archery fetes, picnics. She 
watched Lady Waldrove as she received her guests, won- 
dering, with a heavy heart, whether she would ever be 
fitted to take her place in this grand world — whether she 
should ever learn to move at her ease among the noble 
and high-born. She watched Lady Ethel with something 
like envy. She was to the manner born — in every way 
qualified to reign queen over these brilliant fetes — to re- 
ceive the worshiping homage of a crowd came quite 
natural to her, it required no effort, and Alice longed to 
be more like her. She was quite unconscious of the 
charm of her own graceful, sweet manner — unconscious 
as she was of the beauty of her Greek, passionate, tender 
face. 

As the days passed on she drooped more and more. 
She had come to Roseneath full of hope, believing that in 
time she should win so much love from her husband’s 
friends that they would most kindly welcome her afterward 
as his wife, believing that love would win love, that she 
could make herself so useful, so necessary to them, that 
they would never be able to do without her again. It was 


230 


COMING HOME. 


almost pitiful to see her as this dream faded ; the color 
died from her face, the light from her eyes ; something of 
never-ceasing, wistful pain came into the beautiful, pas- 
sionate face. She would look at herself sometimes, won- 
dering why she grew thinner and paler, almost uncon- 
scious that her very life was fading with the hope that 
sustained it. 

Lady Gertrude and Lady Ethel Pierpont were very 
great friends. In Alice's position it was quite impossible 
to avoid hearing much of what they said. They were 
always speaking of one person, but who that mysterious 
“he" was she could not tell. They never mentioned any 
name — it was “he," “his,” “him," and Alice wondered 
why the bare sound of these little pronouns made her 
shudder as with cold and grow faint with pain. It could 
mean nothing that concerned her, yet each word fell like 
molten lead on her heart. She heard Lady Ethel one day 
make some remark about Lord Carsdale’s portrait — ^some 
keen little criticism that showed her at o*nce Lady Ethel 
must know his face well. She turned to her abruptly, 
without stopping to think. 

“Do you know Lord Carsdale, Lady Ethel?" she asked. 

Never had the proud eyes turned so haughtily to her 
before. The proud face flushed, the lips grew hard, then 
they softened into a marvelous smile. 

“Yes, I know him, Miss Derwent. I was here for 
some weeks before he went to Gibraltar." 

Alice turned away; her heart grew faint with pain. 
Was this why her handsome young husband had lingered 
here? Was this why he had forgotten to bid her “good- 
by?” Then she flung her cruel thought away, saying to 
herself she was mad to have such fears — mad. Had not 
her husband shown his high appreciation of honor? Had 


COMING HOME, 


231 


he not married her for honor’s sake? Was it likely that 
with his keen sense of honor he would so far forget his 
marriage as to linger by the side of this beautiful woman? 
Ah, no 1 a thousand times no. She stilled the terrible 
pain, and turned round again. Then it flashed across her 
that Lady Ethel was talking to her, with a great look of 
wonder in her eyes. 

*‘Had you any reason, Miss Derwent,” asked Lady 
Ethel, in her coldest voice — “had you any reason for 
inquiring if I knew Lord Carsdale?” 

“No; but I thought your remark showed that you 
knew his face.” 

There was a broad look of wonder in Lady Ethel’s eyes. 

“ you cannot have seen his face, Miss Derwent ; he has 
been away five years. ” 

In one moment Alice saw her danger and escaped it. 

“I have only been here a few weeks,” she replied ; “but 
I spend most of my time in Lady Waldrove’s room, and 
the portrait of — of Lord Carsdale hangs there. ’' 

Lady Ethel laughed. 

“ Do not look at it too often,” she said ; “it is a dan- 
gerous picture, Miss Derwent. Lord Carsdale, as I re- 
member him, was a very handsome man.” 

As she remembered him. Alice looked up quickly. 
What right had she — had any one — to remember him? 
He was hers — no other’s. It hurt her with inexpressible 
pain that this beautiful woman should speak of him as 
though she had some share in him. Their concern for 
him, the danger of even allowing the truth to be told, 
filled her mind again. She tried to smile, but it was the 
most painful smile that a girl’s lips ever wore. 

“I will not look at it,” she replied; and Lady Ethel 


COMING HOME. 


232 

thought to herself what a strange way some people had of 
jesting. 

It seemed, after all, some kind of relief to talk about 
him, even to this girl, who could never have seen him, 
because she had been here so short a time. Lady Ethel’s 
pride rebelled against the idea, yet the wish to utter his 
name was stronger than her pride. 

“Lord Carsdale is not like his sisters,” she continued. 
“ I do not like that portrait in Lady Waldrove’s room ; it 
is too much like them.” 

What could Alice do except look np at her with a 
startled glance. It seemed to her unutterably wrong and 
cruel that this girl should speak of her husband so famil- 
iarly. After all, he did not love — he had left the country 
for five years forgetting to say “good-by” to her; but he 
was her husband, for better or worse — they were doomed 
to spend their lives together. She made no answer to 
Lady Ethel, simply because she did not know what to say. 
The fair patrician went on : 

“Lord Carsdale is said to be the most popular man in 
the army. I wonder if it be true? He is not what peo- 
ple call a lady’s man — he is not a flirt. ” 

“ I should think not,” cried Alice, in hot indignation. . 

Lady Ethel laughed again. 

“How droll you are ! Why should he not flirt? Most 
men in his position would have won many hearts before 
this.” 

Noblesse oblige,'" said Alice. “You call him a noble 
man. How could such an ignoble occupation as playing 
with women’s hearts amuse him? Noblesse oblige, Lady 
Ethel.” 

“No doubt it is as you say ; but it proves how different 
he is to other men. ” 


COMING HOME. 


233 

Then Lady Manton came in, and the conversation 
changed. 

Three days after this Lady Waldrove did not feel quite 
well ; her head ached ; the effort of entertaining so many 
guests had told upon her, and she felt inclined to remain 
in her room and rest. Alice was to read something ‘ ‘ nice 
and sleepy'’ to her, and she was no little time in finding a 
book that answered that description. At length she dis- 
covered a fashionable novel, filled with faint sketches of 
very high society, with which the countess professed her- 
self to be quite charmed. 

“Open the window, Miss Derwent,” she said, “and 
let me have all the perfume of the mignonette — I love 
mignonette. ” 

Alice opened the window, so that the dainty, perfumed 
air just reached the luxurious lady; then she began her 
reading — page after page of the weakest matter ever 
printed. She was tired beyond fatigue when, to her 
intense relief, a sudden interruption came ; the maid 
brought in a telegram for the countess. Lady Waldrove 
looked at it and shuddered. 

“ My dear Miss Derwent,” she said, “do you. know that 
I positively hate telegrams? They annoy me, they frighten 
me. I cannot open this. Will you read it for me?” 

Alice laid the novel on the table and opened the tel- 
egram. 

At the first sight of the words her face turned whiter 
than death ; then she read aloud : 

“From Lord Carsdale — Dover — to Lady Waldrove — 
Roseneath Abbey : Have arrived safely in England. 
Shall be at home to-morrow. Dearest love to all.” 

“It is from my son,” cried the countess — “my son, 
and he will be home at last” 


234 


IS MY HUSBAND.'' 


CHAPTER XXXIV. ■ 

“hk is my husband.” 

For some few minutes Alice stood quite motionless, 
holding the telegram as though it had been some living 
thing; her eyes filled with vague dread and fear; her 
thoughts were far from that perfumed chamber. He was 
coming, her husband, the dark-haired, handsome, noble 
man, who had sacrificed sO much for honor ; he was com- 
ing home, and he would find her there. 

“ Miss Derwent,” she heard an impatient voice crying, 
^^you do not seem to hear one word that I say. Will you 
see if it be possible to find Lady Gertrude? I am quite 
well again ; the very thought of my son s return has made 
me well. Do try to find Lady Gertrude ; she must know 
at once.” 

Never had Alice seen the haughty, languid countess so 
excited ; she had forgotten her headache, her fatigue ; this 
son of hers was the one form whom she loved above all 
others on earth; the bare idea of his leturn was more 
than sufficient to arouse her to her full energies. Then 
it seemed to Alice there was a confused kind of silence ; 
through it she saw nothing ; a mist swam before her eyes ; 
then again, sounding as though it came from a great dis- 
tance, came the voice of Lady Waldrove. What was she 
saying? 

Could you oblige me, my dear Miss Derwent, by 
ceasing to look in that vacant way, and tiydng to find Lady 
Gertrude for me?” 

She never knew how she left the room, what she said, 


IS MY HUSBANDS 


235 


or how the strength came to her to move her limbs. She 
remembered nothing until she found herself in the broad 
corridor, then she was still clasping the telegram in her 
hands. She stopped abruptly, trying to recover herself, 
trying to collect her scattered thoughts, trying in vain to 
still the trembling that seized her. He was coming ; in a 
few hours he would be in the house, and he would find 
her there. 

“I cannot think,” she cried, pitifully. “My brain is 
whirling; I have lost the power of thinking.” 

Then she remembered that she must find Lady Ger- 
trude. She went to the conservatory, where she knew that 
the two ladies spent some time every morning. She saw 
the glimmer of white dresses, and she walked through the 
cool, fragrant blooms up to them. It seemed to her that 
she was looking at them through a mist. Then she heard 
Lady Ethel say : 

“There is something the matter, I am quite sure. Look 
at Miss Derwent’s face.” 

Then Lady Gertrude rose and stood before her, speak- 
ing in excited tones. 

“What is the matter. Miss Derwent? — is mamma ill?” 

Then Alice recovered herself. Danger to him always 
brought her to her senses long before anything else. There 
was danger; they might begin to wonder soon what had 
distressed her. She looked up at Lady Gertrude’s ques- 
tioning face, and spoke calmly. 

“I beg your pardon, Lady Gertrude,” she said; “I 
have hurried myself in looking for you. There is nothing 
wrong. Lady Waldrove is better ; she wishes to see you 
at once. ” 

“You have a telegram in your hand,” said Lady Ger- 
trude. “What is it?” 


236 


IS MY EC/SB AUDI' 


Alice blushed crimson ; she hardly knew what answer 
to give. 

“I was reading it to Lady Waldrove,” she said, *‘and 
have brought it with me. I ” 

Then she stopped abruptly. Both ladies were too deeply 
engrossed to notice any emotion of hers. 

“A telegram!” repeated Lady Gertrude ; “it must be 
from my brother. If you read it to mamma, Miss Der- 
went, I may surely see it. Will you give it to me 

Silently enough she placed the telegram in her hands. 
Lady Gertrude read it through, with a smile on her lips ; 
then she turned to the beautiful woman by her side. 

“ My brother is coming home. Lady Ethel,” she cried ; 
‘ ‘ he will be here to-day. ” 

Alice, looking at Lady Ethel, saw what she imagined to 
Be almost a transfiguration. The loveliest color flushed 
her face, the loveliest light came into her eyes, and the 
young wife turned away, sick at heart with a jealous pain 
she could not describe. 

Lady Gertrude went at once to her mother’s room. Lady 
Ethel turned away with a smile, so sweet and beautiful 
Alice was dazed with it, and she herself was free to go to 
her own room, and think what it was best for her to do. 
He was coming that very day — the idea seemed almost 
more than she could grasp. In a few hours from now 
she should see him. How often, how many hundred and 
thousand times had she pictured this meeting, under every 
form possible I Now it was really about to take place ; 
but how different to anything she had ever pictured. 

She had woven a beautiful vision when she first came to 
Roseneath — it was of serving his friends so assiduously, so 
faithfully, so well that she should win their affection, that 
by dint of her own great love she should win their love ; 


IS MY husband:* 237 

then, when he came home, it would not be difficult to 
declare his marriage. He would only have to say : 

“ Mother, this girl whom you love is my wife.” 

Where was that dream now ? She laughed aloud in the 
bitterness of her heart as she asked herself the question. 
She had learned her lesson by that time — she had found 
out that beauty, virtuej intellect, genius, and every other 
gift that could be given by Heaven, was quite useless un- 
less there were high birth and money. She knew now 
that she had no more chance of winning the affection of 
these people than she had of winning the crown of Eng- 
land. They might love Lady Ethel, who was a patrician 
like themselves, and who had money; but love her — never; 
and she knew it. 

That had been her dream ; it was under the influence 
of this hope that she had come to Roseneath — indeed, 
that hope, that aim, were the only things that excused her 
presence there. Unsupported by them, it was a freedom, 
a liberty that she felt it would have been better not to have 
taken. 

What would he say when he found her there? That 
question began to assume a terrible form to her, although 
it had seemed so easy of explanation when she came — she 
had pictured herself saying to him that she was there to 
win his mother’s love; now those same words had an 
absurd sound. She had pictured herself telling him how 
she had gone there to smooth away all his difficulties, to 
make it easier for him to declare his marriage, to pave the 
way, as it were; and in all these things she had most 
signally failed. Indeed, as she sat there, fighting with the 
terrible doubts and fears that overshadowed her, she owned 
to herself that she had made a most terrible, a most fatal 
mistake. She had done wrong in going there; in all 


338 


^•HE IS MY husband:* 


human probability she had done her own cause more harm 
than good. It was too late to undo it now ; she must live 
it through, let it be what it might. Oh, if Heaven would 
but help her! The only wish just at that moment in her 
heart was that she could turn her face to the wall and die 
— die, even though he would be there in a few hours, and 
she had the hope of seeing him again. 

There was a knock at her room door ; she opened it 
with trembling hands. There stood Lady Ethel, light and 
beautiful as the morning, looking up at her with a per- 
suasive smile ; then drawing back as she saw the white, 
weary pain on the girl's face. 

“You are ill. Miss Derwent,” she said, “I am sure — 
you look so pale and strange. Can I do anything for 
you?” 

“No, I thank you. Lady Ethel. I am not in the least 
ill. I have a strange kind of pain at times that wearies me 
very much. Do you want me. Lady Ethel ?” 

“Yes, I did, but I am ashamed; I do not like troubling 
you when you look so — so bad. ” 

“We will forget my looks,” said Alice, a faint smile 
quivering over her lips. “I shall be only too pleased, 
Lady Ethel, if I can be of any use to you.” 

“I wanted to ask you a favor, ” said Lady Ethel ; “I 
saw you the other evening make up lovely, artistic little 
bouquets of crimson roses and green ferns. Now, I have 
a fancy for looking my best to-night — my very best — and I 
want the same for my ornaments; I want a wreath of 
small, crimson roses and lovely, drooping ferns for my 
head. I shall see some one to-night who loves roses, and 
want my dress — which is of white lace — fastened up with 
crimson roses and ferns ; it will look very beautiful, will 
it not?” 


IS MY husband:* 


239 


** Yes/’ replied Alice, musingly. 

“ My maid,” continued Lady Ethel, “is very clever over 
jewels and artificial flowers, but natural ones always require 
the touch of a lady’s white hand. Will you do it for me, 
Miss Derwent?” 

The pain deepened on the girl’s face, but she answered 
bravely : 

“I will do it with great pleasure. Lady Ethel.” 

“Thank you,” said the heiress. “You are very kind 
and good to me ; I shall not forget it, Miss Derwent. I 
want to look nice to-night.” 

The blue eyes, with their vailed passion and vailed fire, 
were raised to hers. 

“Why to-night,” asked Alice, “more than at any other 
time?” 

‘ * That is my secret, ” laughed Lady Ethel. 

She blushed the loveliest crimson, and Alice felt again 
sick at heart as she gazed upon her. 

“Can it be that she wants to look charming in my hus- 
band’s eyes?” thought Alice, little dreaming that proud 
Lady Ethel would have given her whole life to have won 
one glance of real love and admiration from the dark eyes 
of Vivian Carsdale. 

Then Lady Ethel went away, saying as she went : 

“You will come to my room; I will have the flowers 
brought there. I will tell Lady Waldrove that you are good 
enough to give me your assistance.” 

She went, leaving Alice once more alone; but that soli- 
tude was peopled now with strangely sad thoughts. Why 
was this beautiful woman anxious to look so well? Why 
did she want crimson roses and delicate green ferns on her 
golden hair? • 

“I will not help to make her beautiful, that she may 


240 


A WIFE DECOEATING A RIVAL. 


win him,” thought Alice. He is my husband — God and 
man have joined us together. She must not try to take 
him from me. I — I would rather twine serpents and 
thorns in her flowers than that they should charm him. 
But I am mistaken ; it cannot be he ; it is Captain Moore — 
Captain Moore, with- his perfumed love-locks — not Vivian 
Carsdale, who is the only man in the wide world she could 
smile on, and smile in vain.” 

It was some little relief to her not to have to go to Lady 
Waldrove just yet. She felt that the talk about her son 
would have driven her mad. 

She sat there in the bright sunlight, trying in vain to 
drive the terrible doubts and fears away, until the bell rang 
for luncheon, and she was compelled to go down stairs. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

A WIFE DECORATING A RIVAL. 

In after days Alice looked back on that hour spent at 
the luncheon table, as the time of her greatest torture ; 
other evils were deferred, this was not. In the sorrows 
and troubles of her after days there was before her a set- 
tled sorrow — now there was not ; there was only the vague, 
terrible dread, the dark, indefinable fear. She looked 
round on the bright faces. Lady Ethels beautiful features 
were radiant ; Miss Bell had more animation than usual in 
her manner ; Lady Legard and Lady Waldrove were talk- 
ing ; every one seemed cheerful, bright, and happy. Then, 

as she had expected, dreaded, yet hoped, the conversation 

\ 


A IVIFE DECORATING A RIVAL. 


241 


turned on Lord Carsdale. How they spoke of him I how 
they loved him one and all ! Captain Moore said the most ; 
he had not long returned from Gibraltar, and he had a 
hundred pleasant anecdotes to relate of the earl’s son. 
How much he was loved by the officers, how much by the 
men ; no officer in the whole army had his men under 
greater control, yet none was so cared for. He told many 
pleasant stories of the young lord’s courage, his presence 
of mind, his bravery, his self-control. Lady Waldrove’s 
proud face softened as she listened ; this son was indeed 
the idol of her heart. 

Then, Alice, listening with a white face and beating 
heart, heard Lady Legard ask the captain : 

“Is Lord Carsdale what people call a lady’s man?” 

“No,” was the reply; “not exactly; I hardly know 
how to describe. I do not think that in all his life he has 
ever indulged in one flirtation ; I should say not, for I 
know no man whose ideas of women are so chivalrous as 
his. He seems to have the most profound respect for 
everything in feminine shape. Even the men of his regi- 
ment are famous for their chivalrous manner toward wo- 
men. Still he is by no means a lady’s man.” 

Lady Legard listened with great interest ; how little she 
dreamed what those words meant to the fair-haired girl 
with the pale, passionate face. 

“He is not engaged to be married, I suppose?” con- 
tinued her ladyship; “ I should have heard of it here had 
that been the case. ” 

“No,” replied the captain; “and though at different 
times we have had some beeutiful girls in Gibraltar, I have 
never heard of his admiring one.” 

‘ * That seems strange, ” said Lady Legard. 

“There is something rather strange about Lord Cars- 


242 


A WIFE DECORATING A RIVAL. 


dale,” continued Captain Moore; ‘‘a kind of half-sad re- 
serve. He gave me the idea of a man who had a secret 
in his life. I cannot tell you why. At times I have seen 
a strange expression come over his face, when he believed 
himself quite unnoticed.” 

“You interest me greatly,” said Lady Legard. 

* ‘ It may be all nonsense, all fancy, ” said the captain, 
“yet it is so. He will not return to his regiment — I 
heard Lord Waldrove say so. ” 

Then the conversation took another turn, leaving Alice 
in a maze of doubt and fear. What made him unlike 
other men? Was it that the secret of his marriage weighed 
him down, or was it, could it be that he loved her, and 
was sad because he saw so many obstacles in the way of 
declaring his love ? The murmur of voices confused her, 
the scene was like faint realities of a dream, it could not 
be real. Then, when from the confusion of her senses 
some faint glimmer of reason returned, she fancied that 
people seemed to pay an unusual amount of attention to 
Lady Ethel. Was it her jealous fancy? was she really 
jealous ? She longed for the power to understand herself. 
The ordeal was ended at last. Lady Waldrove looked at 
her with a kindly smile. 

“Lady Ethel tells me you have promised to do some- 
thing for her before dinner ; Lady Gertrude will drive out 
with me. Do you know that my son returns to-night? 
Yes; you read the telegram. I am very happy, Miss Der- 
went,” she continued, in stately tones; “my son is com- 
ing home, and I expect great things from his coming.” 

“ Miss Derwent,” said Lady Ethel, “come to my room 
when you have dressed for dinner. I want you to stay 
with me.” 

Lady Ethel thought she was condescending. There was 


A WIFE DECORATING A RIVAL. 


243 


no very pleased expression on the beautiful, tragic face of 
Lord Carsdale’s young wife. She went to her room ; how 
different it all was from what it ought to be. She vas his 
wife. His coming home mattered more to her than to any 
one else. She was his wife — all flowers, all jewels, all else 
that could beautify ought to have been hers; every one 
should have been waiting on her — helping her ; instead of 
that no one even remembered her existence ; the lowliest 
servant in the house had apparently more claim on him 
than she. Time had been when she had pictured to her- 
self how she would dress to receive him — how she would 
look as beautiful as possible so as to win a look of admi- 
ration from him. Now, she did not dare to unpack the 
boxes where her pretty dresses lay. 

She took down the well-worn gray silk with the silver 
fringe ; there was no one to care whether she looked nice 
or not — no one to place a flower in her hair or a jewel on 
her neck — no one to notice whether she looked ill or well. 
All those thoughts crowded on her mind as she stood 
looking at the gray silk. Then she fell on her knees, 
and wept the most bitter tears that any woman’s eyes could 
shed. 

** Is there any one in the whole wide world so lonely.?” 
she sobbed — “so lonely, so unloved? And my husband 
is coming home to-day 1 They will dress the beautiful 
woman who I fear may be my rival ; they will put crimson 
roses in her golden hair and jewels on her white neck; 
while I, who would die for him, shall look so plain and 
insignificant ! Why should it be ? He is my own, although 
I dare not say so — dare not even utter his name. ” 

Perhaps it was some terrible sense of the sorrows to 
come that made her tremble as she knelt there — the first 
thrill of that strange tragedy which was to form her life, 


244 


A WIFE DECORATING A RIVAL. 


Then she had to rise and dress. What matter whether she 
felt inclined or not, it must be done. She must dress, and 
go to Lady Ethel. 

She looked almost repiningly in the mirror; the pale, 
grand, passionate beauty of her face was lost on her ; she 
compared it with the brilliant loveliness of Lady Ethel, 
and shrank at the contrast. 

‘^What will she look like,” thought the girl, ‘‘when 
her head is crowned with crimson flowers? Love itself 
sits in her eyes ; one smile from her lips has power to 
make even marble warm ; while I am pale, thin, worn 
with sleepless nights and anxious days.” 

If she had but known it, there was no more comparison 
between the patrician loveliness of Lady Ethel’s ’face and 
the grand, tragic beauty of her own than there is be- 
tween a poppy and a rose. She put on the gray silk, all 
unconscious that the lines of her most perfect figure were 
curves that would have enchanted a sculptor ; quite igno- 
rant that she had the loveliest neck and shoulders ever 
seen. She brushed out the long, shining waves of hair — 
hair that had such a dash of sunlight in it ; that had none 
of the weak characteristics of fair hair, but was supple and 
brilliant, and beautiful, with a luxuriant beauty that could 
not be hidden. There was no ornament for it, no roses to 
crown it, no jewels to gleam in its depths, but it was a 
crown itself such as few women wear. 

Tall, graceful, with her grand, passionate, beantiful 
face, and tender, love-lit eyes, she never even imagined 
how striking a figure she was. She went to Lady Ethel’s 
room, and found the young heiress there in the midst of 
the most artistic surroundings — crimson roses, and droop- 
ing green ferns, emeralds, and diamonds, fans, made of 
the rarest plumes — every possible luxury and elegance that 


A IVIFE DECORATING A RIVAL, 


245 

art or imagination could devise. Lady Ethel looked up 
when Alice entered the room. 

“ I am so glad you have come, Miss Derwent,'' she said. 
“How kind it is of you. See what a quantity of beauti- 
ful roses the gardener has sent me. Ah, they may well call 
this place Roseneath." 

Then Alice sat down in the midst of the splendor; she 
tried to forget who was being dressed, and why — she tried 
to interest herself solely in the artistic delight of arranging 
the flowers. 

Then a new, strange pain seemed to smite her ; she saw 
something in Lady Ethel she had never seen before — a 
brightness, a lightness of heart — the light that never yet 
shone on land or sea, shone on her face now — why was it.? 
Could it be because “ he ” v. as coming home ? She longed to 
look up from her flowers and say : “ Do not dress to cap- 
tivate Lord Carsdale, Lady Ethel; he is my husband.” 
What consternation such an announcement would make.? 
But that, of course, she could not do. So, while the maid 
brushed out the fine, golden hair, and prepared the beau- 
tiful white lace, Alice, with white, slender fingers, wove the 
bright flowers and green ferns together. Never had Lady 
Ethel been so bright. Alice wondered at her. An artist 
might have studied the picture ; the queenly heiress, with 
her magnificent surroundings, the lace that cost a king’s 
ransom, the flowers and jewels, standing erect in her sweep- 
ing white dress, while deft fingers arranged the flushed flow- 
ers and drooping leaves. Superbly beautiful, but losing 
when compared with the pale, tragical face of the girl whose 
soft gray dress had no ornaments, but whose face might 
have looked down from the walls of Troy on the beleagured 
hosts. Just such limitless woe must have looked from the 
eyes of Juliet. Just such dawning tragedy must have 


246 


A WIFE^S AGONY. 


made the face of Desdemona solemn when she read death 
in Othello’s eyes. Alice kept silence while she wove the 
bright roses and placed them on the beautiful head. 

‘*I am quite satisfied,” said Lady Ethel, looking, with 
a smile, into her mirror. 

Well she might be — she looked like the rose-crowned 
queen of love herself. 

There was some time yet before the dinner-bell rang. 
As Alice stood by the gorgeous toilet-table, admiring 
some of the pretty ornaments, she heard the arrival — she 
heard the carriage-wheels, the pull at the bell, the mea- 
sured tread of servants’ feet. Lady Ethel flushed crimson ; 
Alice’s face grew white as that of the marble Clyde. 

“Lord Carsdale has arrived,” said Lady Ethel. 

But Alice spoke no word — no word ; yet she could hear 
the loud beating of her own heart, and she clung with 
trembling hands to the table, lest .she should fall. 

Then came a rap at the door. Lady Waldrove w'ould 
be glad to see Miss Derwent ; and Alice went. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

A wife’s agony. 

It was not much that the countess wanted^ — only to 
know whether a certain letter that she had desired to be 
written had been written. 

When Alice told her “Yes,” she said : 

“You had better remain with me here. Miss Derwent; 
I may require your services.” 

The fact being that, when the countess had any little 


A mFE'S AGONY. 


247 

Stir or excitement, she liked a strong body-guard around 
her. 

Trembling, faint, and dizzy, Alice looked round as 
though seeking some hope of escape; there was none. 
Some pretty point lace that she was making for the 
countess lay on the table. She took it up and went to 
the far side of the room, where the rich hangings and pro- 
fusion of flowers almost hid her from sight. It was Lady 
Waldrove’s boudoir, where that dainty lady went through 
all her interviews and partings. 

“I shall receive my son here,” she said; “it was here 
that I bade him good-by.” 

The mother who loved him so dearly sat with impa- 
tience on every line of her face; the young wife, who 
would have given her life for him, sat half-hidden far apart, 
praying, with white lips and shadowed eyes, that she might 
not die when her eyes fell on his face. 

Some minutes passed — how many she hardly knew; 
then Lady Gertrude came in, with some little excitement 
in her manner. 

“Mamma, he has altered so greatly,” she said “He 
is so much improved you will hardly know him.” 

“ He was always handsome,” murmured my lady. 

Then came the sound of footsteps that Alice knew so 
well. She pressed her hand on her heart, for its wild beat- 
ing frightened her, as each step fell on her ear. She could 
have cried aloud in her agony, with the terrible tension of 
her nerves ; but her white lips could form no sound. , 

The next minute he had entered the room, and looking 
on him once more, Alice did not die. He was wonder- 
fully changed. Five years had transformed him from a 
handsome, dark-haired stripling to a tall, splendid man, 
whose face was bronzed and bearded, ‘ ‘ a soldier every inch 


248 


A WIFE'S AGONY, 


of him/’ the- servants said, and they were right — erect, 
proud, with a martial carriage that was grand to see. He 
knelt down by his mother’s side ; she was his dream of all 
that was most beautiful in women ; he threw his strong 
arms round her, kissing her over and over again, all un- 
conscious of the white, pained face, with its tender, tragic 
beauty, near him. 

“ It is long since I have seen you, mother,’’ he said ; “ I 
shall never leave you again.” 

Then, and for the first time, his young wife heard what 
music there was in his voice, how tender, and true, and 
earnest it could be. Would it ever fall to her lot to hear 
such whispered words? 

Real tears stood in Lady Waldrove’s eyes ; sh§ had shed 
none since her son left her — how many years ago ? Then 
she said to him : 

“Stand up, Vivian. Why, my dear, what a handsome 
man you have grown. You are like the Carsdales — you 
are the very picture of old Earl Hugh, my dear boy ; it 
does my heart good to see you again. ” 

Then Lady Gertrude spoke, and it occurred suddenly 
to Lady Waldrove that her companion was somewhere in 
the dim shadow of the hangings and the flowers. 

“You see, Vivian, Gertrude is not married V^t; she 
seems very difficult to please. She spends so much time 
with her sister that I have been compelled to look for a 
companion.” 

Aristocrat as she was, the countess would have consid- 
ered any formal introduction between the heir of Rose- 
neath and her companion bad taste. She merely said : 

“Lord Carsdale, my companion. Miss ” 

And the words died away in a gentle murmur. 

He looked carelessly in the direction she indicated; he 


A IVIFE^S AGONY, 


249 


saw a picturesque mass of hangings and flowers, a woman's 
fair head, a pale face on which his eyes did not for one 
moment rest ; then, with a low bow, he turned away. 

She stood rooted to the ground — white, silent, motion- 
less, all the tragedy and passion of her love shining in her 
face ; her arms fell helplessly ; she could not have moved 
to have saved her life. She had expected that he would 
cry out either in wonder or in anger — that he would 
recognize her with a gleam of some emotion ; but he had 
looked on her, and knew her not. It was a cruel stab to 
the gentle heart — a cruel, terrible, merciless stab. 

She had dreamed of this meeting by night and by day, 
in summer and winter, in autumn and spring ; there had 
been no moment in which it had not been present to her 
eyes ; she had dreamed of it in every possible phase — he 
had met her in anger, in love, with boundless admiration, 
with impatience, but in no dream, in no wild fancy had 
she ever said to herself that he did not know her. It was 
all alike ; he had left the country forgetting that he had 
not said good-by to her ; on his return he looked at her 
and did not know her. 

In the few minutes that passed as she stood there the 
very bitterness of death passed over her. He, the husband 
she had loved so faithfully, so well, had looked at her and 
had not known her. She turned away with a sigh. She 
took up the point lace and stood where a group of scarlet 
blossoms hid her from sight. She could hear the sound 
of his voice as he talked to his mother and sister. 

Then, gaining courage when she found how completely 
unnoticed she was, she looked from between the scarlet 
flowers. 

He looked splendidly handsome; the dark face was 
bronzed, the dark eyes were bright and thoughtful, the 


250 


A mFE'S AGONY. 


dark cluster of hair seemed to have grown stronger and 
richer. Yet what Captain Moore had said of him was 
quite true — he did not look quite happy ; there was a story 
of some kind in his face, a repressed passion and fire, a 
something that was held back by the force of his iron will. 
It was a face to be wondered at and worshiped, Alice 
thought — a face that if it should soften to any woman to 
win her love would be irresistible. 

She watched him, knowing that she was quite forgotten. 
Oh, for once — just for once — to clasp her arms around his 
neck, to kiss his bonnie face, to look into those dark 
eyes — only once, then die. 

She heard Lady Waldrove say : 

“You see, Vivian, we have here your old friend. Lady 
Ethel Pierpont.’' 

Then she saw her husband’s face change ; dark as it was, 
a red flush burned it, a strange expression came into his 
eyes, they grew tender as the eyes of a laughing child, 
then hard, 'cold, and stern. She saw it and wondered. 

“Yes, she is here, and looking more beautiful than 
ever, they tell me,” he said. 

He spoke in a cool, unconcerned tone ; but Alice, who 
knew every tone of his voice, detected the constraint. 

“ Were you not surprised to find her unmarried?” asked 
Lady Gertrude. 

Again the red flush on the dark face. He turned away. 

‘ ‘ I cannot tell ; sometimes those very beautiful women 
are hard to please,” he said. 

The countess laughed. She threw one white arm round 
her son’s neck and drew his face down to hers. 

“ I will tell you what I think, my son,” •she whispered, 
then she added some few^words Alice did not hear. 


A WIFE^S AGONY. 


251 


“Nonsense, mother,” cried the soldier, springing from 
the caress of that white arm. “Nonsense ; do not believe 
one word of it. It is all fancy.” 

Whatever the fancy might have been, it touched him 
keenly, for, as he turned away, his lips were white and 
firmly pressed together. The earl came in then, followed 
by one or two others, and in the confusion Alice escaped 
quite unperceived. 

It was well for her that she did so ; she could not have 
borne the tension of her nerves much longer. She has- 
tened back to her own room and flung herself on her 
knees, weeping wild, bitter tears, sobbing as though her 
heart would break, calling on Heaven to help her that she 
might bear it — bear it and live. The gentle, tender heart 
bled ; it was the most cruel blow that could have been 
struck at her — cruel beyond all measure — not to know 
her! She could have forgiven him had he been angry, 
impatient, irritable — had he met her with reproaches — 
anything would have been better than this most cruel in- 
difference ; it seemed as though he had never once thought 
of her face since he left her, not knowing it now. 

The dinner-bell rang, and Alice knew that nothing 
could excuse her from attending there — she must go. 
The countess had no memory for names or dates; she 
wanted some one always at hand to whom she could 
appeal, and that some one must be Alice. 

“When did I hear from Lady Turtile, Miss Derwent? 
Who went to Rome with Nora Phillips, Miss Derwent? 
Who told me about the Morston marriage?” 

Alice was expected always to be clear and bright in her 
answers — to remember every date, every name, every inci- 
dent that occurred in her ladyship’s circle of friends ; she 
never dared to absent herself from the dinner-table. On 


252 


A IVJFE'S AGONY. 


the only day she had ever asked to be excused Lady Wal- 
drove had said to her : 

“lam sorry your head aches, Miss Derwent; you can 
rest it afterward; but I must have some one near me to 
remember trifles for me. " 

After that she never asked to absent herself again. 

She bathed her face in cool, fragrant waters. After all, 
what did it matter? Who would care whether she had 
been crying or not? Who among that brilliant, well- 
dressed party — who would think of her? 

Yet the pale, passionate beauty of that face might have 
thrilled men’s hearts as the wind does the jessamine flower. 

She went down to the drawing-room. A large party 
was assembled there, all vieing with each other in paying 
attention to the new-comer. Then,, when the time came 
that they should go down to dinner, she watched the little 
group ; she saw her husband’s dark, handsome head bent 
over rich coils of golden hair, crowned with crimson 
roses; she saw them together, her husband and Lady 
Ethel. She owned to herself that nature must have in- 
tended them for each other — she so tall, so fair, so lovely, 
he in all the dark, proud beauty of his manhood. 

“A splendid pair,” she heard whispered; “.so well 
matched. ” 

And it was with the utmost difiiculty that she refrained 
from crying out : 

“He is my husband ! We were married five years ago 1’^ 

But she did refrain, let it cost her what it might 


UNHAPPY. 


253 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

UNHAPPY. 

The etiquette of the dinner-table had separated mother 
and son ; Alice sat near Lady Waldrove, in order to supply 
any little gaps in that lady’s memory. Fortunately for her, 
the countess was not in a very communicative humor, so 
there was not any great demand on her attention; had 
there been, she must have covered herself with disgrace, 
for her whole attention was given to her husband and 
Lady Ethel. They sat side by side, his dark, handsome 
head contrasting with her golden-haired one. They talked 
much, but she could not guess even the nature of their 
conversation. One thing she did remark — they seldom or 
never looked at each other; Lady Ethel’s violet eyes 
dropped always before the dark eyes of Lord Carsdale, and 
he never seemed seriously to seek her glance. He was 
very attentive to her, he was most chivalrous and gallant ; 
but Alice could not tell whether there was mere than she 
saw or not. One thing more was significant — once or 
twice he looked at her with a vague, unconscious glance ; 
she knew, when his eyes rested on her face, there was not 
the faintest gleam of recognition in them — most certainly 
he did not know her. 

“I cannot suffer any more,” she thought, “having 
brought myself to realize that one fact that he does not 
know me ; death itself holds nothing worse.” 

Once she saw their eyes meet, these two who had parted 
in sorrow and anguish by the shores of the shining sea, 
and Alice turned away, sick at heart. There was some- 


254 


UNHAPPY, 


thing yet which death did not hold, yet which poisoned 
life. The conversation during that dinner was witty, 
polished, and refined ; yet, when it was ended, Alice re- 
membered that she had never spoken, had never uttered 
one word, and that no one, except Sir Joseph Legard, had 
spoken to her. 

It was Lord Carsdale who hastened to open the door as 
the ladies left the room. Once more she saw his eyes and 
Lady Ethel’s meet ; then his eyes, blinded by what he had 
read, looked again at his young wife as she passed by with- 
out knowing her. 

When they reached the drawing-room, the countess, as 
usual, made herself very comfortable. She explained to 
every one that it was by the doctor’s advice she always 
closed her eyes for a few minutes after dinner; it invigor- 
ated her, she said, and gave her strength for the evening. 
It was Alice’s duty to sit near her, to ward off all intruders, 
to rouse her when the gentlemen came in. She saw Lady 
Ethel take a cozy-looking chair ; she laid her head back 
on the soft, downy pillow, but not to sleep — not to sleep. 
There was a sweet, soft, brooding light in her eyes, a 
happy, pleased smile of entire content playing round her 
lips; her thoughts were pleasant ones — that much Alice 
felt sure. Lady Ethel spoke to no one ; she seemed lost 
in some happy dream. 

The gentlemen came in then, and Alice roused the 
countess. Lord Carsdale came to speak to her. If he 
could but have seen the pale, beautiful face, with its in- 
tense pathos and beauty, so near him ; but Alice hid it 
with her hands. He would have to recognize her, but the 
recognition must not take place in public now. She read 
that in his face which made her shrink from it. He went 


UNHAPPY. 


255 

up to Lady Ethel then, and Alice watched — watched while 
the gentle, loving heart seemed to break. 

The happy light that came from happy thoughts deep- 
ened in Lady Ethel’s eyes; the radiant face seemed to 
grow brighter; there was a smile of unutterable beauty 
and sweetness, as he took a seat by her side. 

What was he saying in a low voice as he bent his head .? 
Something that brought a flush of color to her face. Alice 
looked at the crimson roses on the golden hair, at the 
diamonds on the white throat, at the gleam of jewels, at 
the folds of white lace, at the lovely white neck and 
shoulders. Ah ! who could resist her.? — was she not the 
very queen of love? 

Women have suffered much and will suffer again ; they 
have endured the pangs of death with a smile, they have 
walked with bleeding feet over sharpest thorns and have 
betrayed no pain ; they have listened to words which were 
their death-warrant, and have answered with a bright laugh; 
they have stood still, firm, undismayed, while the sharpest 
sword has pierced their hearts; but, perhaps, no woman 
ever suffered more keenly than Alice, as she sat watching 
her husband and Lady Ethel. 

Then some one came up to the beautiful heiress and 
took her away, leaving Lord Carsdale alone. Alice saw 
how his face changed, how the light died out of it, how 
the eyes darkened and stem lines came round the lips. 
What was he thinking of then ? Could it be of her ? 
Then Lady Ethel came back, and something was said of 
music. 

“ Will you sing, Lady Ethel ?” asked the countess; and 
as she rose with a smile to comply. Lord Carsdale touched 
her arm. 


256 


UNHAPPY, 


‘■Do not,” he said; “you must not — I could not 
bear it.” 

Lady Ethel sat down again, making some faint excuse, 
while Alice wondered more and more what that meant. 
There must surely be something more than'fcommon be- 
tween them, or they would never speak so. Why could 
he not bear to hear her sing ? What was her singing to 
him ? 

What was he thinking of as he sat there, his handsome 
face darkling with emotion? Did he remember his young 
wife at all ? Did he think of that one happy day at the 
regatta? Did he remember Rudeswell ? Did he remem- 
ber the days at Paris? She could not hope so; he did 
not look as though his thoughts were with her. Then 
Lord Carsdale was asked to join some one at piquet. He 
passed close to her as he crossed the room— he even 
touched her dress in passing. His eyes wandered quite 
carelessly over her, then he went^n his way. 

Later on Alice heard Lady Waldrove say to her son : 

“Do you still keep up your old habit of smoking, 
Vivian?”* 

“Yes,” he replied ; “I never lose old habits, mother ; I 
take my cigar in the night air always, the last thing.” 

“If you smoke late in the grounds here, you will be 
taken for a poacher, ” said my lady. 

He laughed carelessly. 

“That would not matter much, mother.” 

“Not matter !” she said, in a horrified voice ; “ not mat- 
ter \{ you were shot as a poacher?” 

‘ ‘ Every man has to die, mother ; what matter whether 
it be on land or water, by bullet or cold ; it can be but 
once — what matter how?” 

His mother looked quite troubled. 


UNHAPPY. 


257 


“ My dear Vivian,” she said, **you speak quite reck- 
lessly ; and what troubles me still more, you do not speak 
like a happy man.” 

There was something bitter in the laugh that answered 
her. 

“Do I not, mother? Then I must be very ungrateful; 
for most certainly I ought to be happy.” 

“You, the heir of Roseneath, a brave soldier, an ac- 
complished gentleman, a beloved son, the idol of your 
home — for you to speak of death as though it would be a 
relief to you — I cannot understand it. Yet, now that I 
look at you, you do not give me the impression of being 
a very happy man. ” 

“It is all fancy, mother,” he replied; but Alice heard 
the tremor in his voice. 

“Vivian, you must marry,” said the countess. “No 
man ever Teels quite happy until he is settled with a charm- 
ing wife. You must marry, my dear.” 

Did he remember her? Alice could not doubt it then, 
for a look of unutterable anguish came for one moment 
over his face — a look that she never forgot. 

“I will remember what you say, mother,” he replied, 
hastily, as he turned away. 

Then Alice thought to herself that if he were going out 
in the grounds to smoke his cigar, the best plan would be 
for her to follow him, and to talk to him there. He must 
know soon of her presence, lest hearing her name and 
looking at her suddenly he should recognize her. Some 
keen, subtle instinct told her that he would never forget 
that, or forgive it. She must, instead of going to her own 
room to-night — she must wrap herself in something dark, 
and follow him. There would be no risk ; even if any 
one should by accident see her with him, they would fancy 


258 


UNHAPPY. 


it was Lady Gertrude. It was late that evening before the 
party broke up. She was standing near the countess when 
Lord Carsdale came to bid her good-night. 

“We have had a very pleasant evening, mother,” he 
said. “After all, it is delightful to be at home again. 
Have I my old suite of rooms, next to yours 

“Yes,” she replied, gently; “I thought that you would 
like them best” 

“I do; and, mother, do not be alarmed if I am late. 
My brain is excited by meeting with all these old friends 
again ; it will take three cigars and two hours in the open 
air to send me to sleep. ” 

“ Mind you do not take cold, Vivian,” said the countess, 
anxiously. “lam always afraid of the night air. ” 

He laughed. 

“That is capital advice to give a soldier, mother. I 
never think of heat or cold. ” 

“It is a great blessing to be so strong,” murmured the 
countess, languidly. “I envy you, Vivian. Good-night, 
my dear ; a hundred welcomes home. ” 

Then the countess retired with great state and solemnity. 
“ Miss Derwent,” she said, “bring a three-volume novel 
to-night; I feel as though I should never go to sleep at 
all, I am so pleased. It has done my heart good, it has 
made me feel young and strong, to see my son again — 
three volumes, if you please. ” 

Alice sighed, the dreary, hopeless sigh of despair. If 
she had to wade through even half a volume, there was 
not much chance for her that evening. She stood by, 
quiet and sick at heart, while the maid removed the jewels 
and the costly dress, while she found the hundred and one 
little luxuries that the countess thought essential. Once, 
under the pretext of straightening the blind, she went to 


AN AMAZED HUSBAND. 


259 

the window. It was a lovely, starlight night, and her hus- 
band was walking among the flowers and leaves. 

“Now, Miss Derwent,” said my lady. 

Alice was resigned ; she should not see her husband 
that night, and only Heaven knew what might happen on 
the morrow. Still she made no remark. She shaded the 
night-lamp from my lady’s eyes, and opened the book, 
but something in the sad tones of the tired young voice 
touched my lady’s heart. She listened for some little 
time, then she said, gently : 

“Your voice has a tired tone to-night, Miss Derwent.” 

“I am tired,” said Alice, quietly. 

“Then,” said the countess, “you had better go to 
sleep ; no one can read well who is tired. Send my maid 
to me. Good-night, Miss Derwent” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

AN AMAZED HUSBAND. 

At last she was free. She stood in her own room, the 
silent night around her, no keen eyes to watch her, at 
peace under the light of the moon and the stars. She 
found a black cloak and wrapped herself in it, then went 
cautiously down the broad corridors. There was no sound. 
The white statues gleamed in the moonlight, the strangest 
shadows lay on the wide stairs — it was so strange, so silent, 
so still. She went out by a little side door that led to the 
grounds; she should find him, she was quite sure, as the 
sunflower finds the sun. She drew the door cautiously to, 
then was out on the green -sward — free and alone. Her 


26 o 


AN AMAZED HUSBAND, 


first impulse was a sigh of unutterable content; how long 
it seemed since she had stood in the silence, in the sweet 
fragrance of a summer’s night! The moon was shining 
bright and clear, the stars were all golden in the dark 
depths of the blue sky ; the dew lay on the flowers and the 
leaves, the rich heavy heads of the roses were drooping, the 
white lilies stood aloft, pale and lovely — it was so sweet, so 
fragrant, so still. 

“ The smile of Heaven lies on it,” she thought ; *T pray 
that same kind Heaven to help me. ” 

Then she walked across the lawn; the moonlight lay 
on it, clear as silver, the trees threw strange shadows, the 
wind whispered sweet, half-sad stories. She looked down 
the broad paths where the crimson rose leaves were scat- 
tered, and the white lilies gave out their delicious perfume. 
There was no sign of him ; she crossed over to the broad, 
deep lake where the water lilies slept, and the green banks 
glistened with dew — he was not there. To the left there 
stretched a grand avenue of chestnuts, which were in the 
full beauty of their thick foliage, so that in the grove one 
could not see the sky, and the darkness was solemnly 
beautiful. She was afraid as she looked down — the tall 
trees stood like huge giants, their branches swaying gently, 
the green leaves rippling with majestic content, as though 
they would say: “Pass under, mortal! you live to-day; 
to-morrow you die, while we stand for centuries !” 

The wind made strange music in those swaying boughs. 
She listened ; there was no sound, no hasty footstep, no 
half-careless song ; he could not be there. Yet surely that 
same wind, redolent with the breath of flowers, that same 
wind brought with it the faintest odor of a cigar. He was 
there, sitting perhaps on one of those pretty rustic seats 
where she had so often sat to think of him. 


AN AMAZED HUSBAND. 


261 


She went into the silent, fragrant darkness; the path 
between the chestnuts was wide and green, the grass was 
soft and thick. She walked so softly over it, that no sound 
disturbed the silence of the night. Then she saw him ; he 
was sitting in the moonlight, his head leaning back against 
the rough trunk of a tree ; his face, she could see, even in 
that faint light, pale with emotion. He was thinking so 
deeply, that he never even heard the sound of her foot- 
steps. She heard him say : 

“What a madman I was — great Heaven ! how mad 

She wondered of what he was thinking, of what he was 
speaking, in those words. 

Then her heart beat fast with sudden fear. What was 
she to say to him .? What would he say to her? He would 
be angry — perhaps vexed, annoyed. She had a quick, 
strong impulse to turn back again — to leave Roseneath on 
the morrow, and never to- see him again. Then the love 
that ruled her life mastered her; she must hear him speak 
to her— she must look in his face — she must know how 
much he cared about her, even if she had to die for it. 
The moon came just at that moment from behind a cloud, 
throwing a lovely silver light all around. She went up to 
him, and quietly called his’ name. 

“Lord Carsdale,” she said. There came no answer. 
He had not even heard. She did not know that the faint 
sound of her own voice had died away upon her lips — 
there was a rush of wind through the great clustered 
boughs. “Lord Carsdale,” she cried again ; then she saw 
him turn suddenly, as though uncertain whence the sound 
came. “ Lord Carsdale,’’ she repeated, for the third time; 
then, with a low cry, he rose to his feet and stood before 
her. The moon has shone on many scenes, on none so 
cruel as this. He looked down on her. 


262 


AN AMAZED HUSBAND. 


*^Who are you?" he asked; and Ailie let the cloak, 
which had shrouded her, fall ; then, looking up at him in 
a passion of love, she watched for the least sign of affec- 
tion. She saw — and the sight almost struck her dead — 
she saw his face change and darken — darken with angry 
dislike. She clasped her hands with a low cry. “I must 
be mistaken," he said, in a clear voice. “ Who are you?" 

She raised her beautiful face, with all her passionate love 
shining in it, to his. 

^‘I am Ailie," she replied; but he did not open his 
arms to her ; he did not clasp her to his heart ; he did not 
kiss her trembling lips. 

“Ailie!" he repeated, as he fell back. “Great God! 
what are you doing here?" 

“Is it so strange that I should be here, " she said — ■ 
‘ ‘ here, where you are ?" 

“ Have you followed me?" he asked, man like, express- 
ing his suspicion first. 

“Followed you? — oh, no. Lord Carsdale. Do you 
know that it is five years since I have seen you ?" 

“Yes, I know it; but I think it is very imprudent of 
you to come here." 

“Do you know that you left England without saying 
‘good-by' to me?" 

“Did I? It must have been your own fault, then; I 
went down to Rudeswell on purpose ; but that has nothing 
to do with it. Why are you here? I cannot understand 
it. I thought you were at home. It is awfully impru- 
dent." 

She held out her hands to him with a low cry. 

“Oh, my love, my love!" she moaned, “are ypu not 
pleased to see me? Have you no kind word for me? 
Have you no welcome ?" 


AN AMAZED HUSBAND. 


263 


As she bent forward in the moonlight the moon shone 
full on the tranquil loveliness of her face, with its tender 
eyes and sweet, sad lips. He was startled by it — its ex- 
quisite beauty was a revelation to him. 

“Ailie,” he cried, *‘how you have changed! Let me 
look at you. ” She stood half shrinking before him ; she 
knew that she had grown fairer since he left her. “Why, 
Ailie,” he said, “ I left you a school-girl, and now you look 
like 

Then he paused. 

“ Like what.?” she asked, half shyly, with a lovely faint 
flush coming over the whiteness of her face — “like what.?” 

“You are like the marble Clytie come to life.” Strange 
that he should use Lady Ethels very words. “Let ire 
look at your face, Ailie.” She raised it to his, and the 
moonlight falling on it, idealized it into perfect beauty. 
He raised it gently with one hand, and studied it ; then he 
spoke, quietly: “I left you a child, Ailie; I find you a 
woman. In your face I read passion — I read a tragedy. 
What story does it tell? There lies more in those blue 
eyes than I had dreamed ; and the lines round that mouth 
are not common ones. What has changed you, Ailie?” 

Her eyes shone with new light. 

“Perhaps you will be angry if I tell you,” she said. 

“No, that I shall not be. What is it?” 

“My love has changed me; it has grown so great, so 
wide, so deep, it fills my heart, and then it fills my face ; 
it shines in my eyes and trembles on my lips ; so, because 
my love is beautiful, it has made my face look — a little 
beautiful too; it is al] my love.’' 

“Your love I” he said, wonderingly. “Love for what?” 

The fire of the sun, the passion of the poets seemed to 
pass over her, as she answered : 


264 


AN AMAZED HUSBAND. 


My love for you — I have no other; my love, which is 
great, wide, deep, boundless as the sea — that is resistless, 
relentless as a tempest — yet is as sweet and glorious as a 
flower, and as gentle as the dew ; my love, that is my life — 
you hear? — my life ,, 

He looked at her in utter amaze. 

“Do you mean that you love me so, Ailie?” he asked, 
wonderingly. 

“Yes, you, my husband, my king among men, my 
hero, who married me rather than let one shadow lie on 
my name. Whom else should I love but you?” 

Then the fire and passion died from her again; she 
shrank back from him. 

“I forget,” she said, gently; “you know nothing about 
it, and you do not love me.” 

He roused himself as one who has an unpleasant dream. 

“To tell you the real truth, Ailie,” he said, “it is five 
years since, and — I am afraid you will think me careless, 
but I had — it is better to tell you the truth — I had almost 
forgotten you.” 

She shrank back with ' a little cry, as though he had 
wounded her past bearing. 

“You had forgotten me?” she said, gently. “I know 
it — I saw it at once, your eyes fell on my face, and there 
was not one gleam of recognition in them.” 

“Then,” he cried, “I have never seen you until this 
moment; and that reminds me — did you come here to 
seek me?” 

“No, not exactly; I came here in the vain hope — ah, 
well, never mind why I came ; I am here. Did not Lady 
Waldrove introduce you to her companion to-day? I am 
her companion ; she calls me Miss Derwent.” 

He recoiled a few steps, and she saw the red flush of 


LOVE IS MY torture:^ 


265 


anger mount to his face, his eyes gleamed ; he was terribly 
annoyed; she could see it, and her heart sank at the 
thought. 

You do not mean to tell me, Ailie, that you live here.'^’" 
he asked. 

‘‘Yes, I do,” she replied. 

“Have you really ventured to introduce yourself here 
as my mother s companion ?” he asked, coldly. 

“Yes, I have so ventured.” 

“Then you have done wrong; you have broken our 
contract; you have acted in a manner that will deprive 
you of my esteem, and I did esteem you.” 

“You are very hard, very cruel, Lord Carsdale!” she 
replied, shivering as he spoke to her. 

“It is true that you have done a most unjustifiable 
deed, one that I shall never forgive or forget. I am more 
annoyed than I ever thought to be with you. Why did 
you do it?” 

She flung up her arms with a little cry of despair. 

“I will tell you,” she cried; “nothing could be more 
foolish than my dream, my fond, foolish hope. You can 
trample me under your feet when you have heard it.” 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

“my love is my torture.” 

Lord Carsdale listened in silence as she told her storj'. 
“And you were foolish epough to do this,” he said; 
“foolish enough to believe that my mother, one of the 
proudest women in England, could learn to love you ? 


266 


**My LOVE IS MY torture:^ 


You could never so far deceive yourself! My mother has 
but one idol — Mammon 1 You could never have been so 
blind, Ailie.” 

There was a look of quiet despair in her face as she an- 
swered : , *-* 

I did believe it, Vivian ; now I see how wrong I was. 
Now I understand the class of people to which Lady Wal- 
drove belongs ; then I did not, I swear to you I did not ! 

I thought that if she found me amiable and lovable she 
would care for me; I thought that in time I could make 
myself quite indispensable to her, and that then she would 
not be angry when you said, ‘This is my wife.’” 

“It is of no use blaming you now,” he said, “the deed 
is done ; but if you had chosen the direct w^ay to ruin me 
and yourself, you could not have chosen a more efficacious 
one. Did you never think how utterly impossible it 
would be for me to introduce my mother’s companion as 
my wife ? You, by your own act and deed, have placed 
an almost impassable barrier between us. What induced 
you, Ailie, to think of such a thing ?” 

“The hope of making your friends like me,” she re- 
plied. 

He laughed bitterly — the sound of his laughter seemed 
to drive her to frenzy. 

“Do not laugh at me,” she said, with dignity; “my 
sorrow is so great, it should make me sacred in your eyes. ” 

“I am laughing at your ideas, not at you,” he replied ; 
“the utter absurdity, the intolerable folly of coming here. 
You force harder words from me than I had ever thought 
of speaking to any woman, but it was such unheard of 
folly, such madness 1 You knew the peculiar circumstances 
of our Quixotic marriage — what had my friends to do with 
you, or you to do with them? You have done wrong, 


“J/r LOVE IS MY TORTUREr 


267 


Ailie ; you have vexed me more than I was ever vexed in 
my life before. You have placed me in a condition of 
. such embarrassment that I am quite at a loss how to^ extri- 
cate myself. Of course, among all your folly, you have 
had the sense to keep our miserable secret. ” 

She beat her hands together in dumb despair ; then she 
cried aloud : 

Why should I suffer so.? What have I done that I 
should suffer so cruelly.? Is Heaven punishing me for 
one day’s holiday ? Better that I had died !” 

The wild passion of her words passed all unheeded by 
him. 


I 


“You do not answer me, Ailie,” he said. “Have you 
kept our secret .?” 

“You may be quite sure that I have done so,” she said, 
“ I would rather have died than have told it.” 

“That is well. I wish you had been equally prudent 
in everything. I am very grieved, Ailie ; it is a great 
blunder — a cruel blunder. You must go away again at 
once. ” 

“Go !” she said, and even in the moonlight he saw how 
ghastly pale her face had grown. “ Go ! Lord Carsdale ; 
do you really wish, do you really mean it?” 

“Certainly ; you cannot dream of staying here ; it would 
be sheer madness ; think of the risk even that we run to- 
night. It would be the very height of folly — madness. 
You must go at cnce.” 

“You do not care then for me to be near, so that you 
can see me sometimes.” 


“Great Heaven! Ailie, you are certainly mad — near 
me, here I A thousand times, no. Why should I risk so 
much to see you ? Any time that I have any desire for 


268 


LOVE IS MY TORTURE!^ 


talking to you I could run down to Rudeswell. Your in- 
come is paid regularly, I hope?” 

“Yes,” she replied, faintly. 

“Then I can have nothing to see you about.” 

He looked up in alarm, for she had flung* herself on the 
ground, and was weeping siich passionate tears — he was 
terrified. The moon never shone on a more cruel scene, 
the girl with her golden hair sweeping over her like a vail 
— her face hidden in the long, soft grass ; the man, tall, 
erect, and angry, with perplexed, angry wonder in his eyes. 
He was touched at heart, for, like most men. Lord Cars- 
dale had a keen dread of tears. He raised her gently in 
his arms ; there was no caress in the action, it was simply 
one of kindly pity. 

“ Ailie, what does all this mean? I do not understand 
you. Speak to me reasonably — what does it mean?” 

“ It means,” she said, “that I love you, and my love is - 
my torture.” 

“You love mel^^ he cried; “but, Ailie, our marriage' 
had nothing to do with love. I married you lest any 
blame from my foolish action should fall upon you — 
lest in punishment for that one day’s unfortunate holi- 
day, you should be' turned adrift on the world — there was 
nothing about love — nothing said or thought of it” 

“No,” she replied, “not on your part, I know, but 
there was on mine. I loved you then, although I tried to 
hide it I love you now, so entirely, so wholly, that I 
have no life away from my love. I am not ashamed to tell 
you, because you are my husband — you know.” 

“You love me so?” he said, in astonishment 

“Yes, so — a thousand times more!” she cried, with 
sudden passion. “ More than any one ever loved another 
— more than I have words to tell you in.” 


“J/K LOF£ IS MY TORTURE:^ 


269 


“That makes a most unfortunate combination of mat- 
ters,” said Lord Carsdale, gravely. “ I had never thought 
of that, I had looked upon our marriage purely as a busi- 
ness transaction ; it makes it very awkward, Ailie, if you 
love me !” 

She looked up at him. 

“You do not love me, then ?” she said. 

“ No, I have never thought of such a thing; it must be 
fancy. • You cannot really love me, Ailie; you know noth- 
ing of me — I have been away for five years ; it is a fancy 
that you must forget.” 

“Shall you never try to love me?” she asked. 

“I think not,” he replied, thinking of that parting by 
the sea-shore, and the lovely face that made the very sun- 
light of heaven for him. “I think not. You see, Ailie, 
I cannot acknowledge my marriage ; it was a folly, a gen- 
erous folly, I own, but still a folly. My mother would 
never enjoy her life one moment after that was known; 
my father would never hold up his l^ad again ; as for my 
sisters, well, I need not think of thfem. The fact is, that, 
until my father and mother are dead, and God send that 
may be many years hence, I cannot own my marriage. I 
love them and I cannot wound them.” 

“You think it would wound them,” she said. 

“I tell you honestly, Ailie, I do not think they would 
ever speak to me again. They would refuse to see me. 
My mother is a proud woman — very proud — and the one 
tender place in her heart is mine. She loves me and I 
could not wound her ; so that it will be far better if I do 
not try to love you ; besides, Ailie, throw your thoughts 
back five years ago — I never spoke of loving you, did I ?” 

“No,” she replied, sadly. 

“ I never did love you. I was a young man, very sus- 


270 


LOVE IS MY torture:^ 


ceptible, and you were a pretty girl ; I liked you, admired 
you, and felt like a kind, brotherly friend ; I pitied you 
when I heard the doleful story of your life, and wished to 
give you one day’s happiness ; then, to save j^ou from the 
consequences of my Quixotism, I made you my wife. We 
were excellent friends, but I do not remember that either 
before or since I have ever said one word of love. I have 
never deceived you, never pretended anything I did not 
feel, never called myself your lover, or anything except 
your friend. Is it not so, Ailie?” 

^‘Yes,” she replied, wearily. “You are right, and I 
am quite wrong. I have lived in a beautiful, vain, foolish 
dream ; you have awakened me ; I thank you. ” 

“Do not speak so sadly, Ailie. You can enjoy your- 
self very much ; you can live in some pretty, lively place, 
and have all that you want. ” 

She laughed, and the sound of that low, bitter laughter 
struck him like a blow. 

“ Yes,” she said, ‘tyou give me a stone when I ask you 
for bread ; you can pierce me with sharpest thorns when I 
ask for a flower ; you can kill me with cold, cruel kindness, 
but you cannot make me happy. I can never be happy ; 
the world is simply a mockery to me. ” 

“And why?” he asked. 

She raised her face to his, and again the bright moon- 
light showed him its pale, passionate beauty, its tender 
eyes and sweet lips. 

“Why?” she cried ; “because I love you and you do 
not love me ; because you do not know — you do not love 
me; because there can be no pain, no torture on earth 
like that of an unhappy love. You know nothing of it — 
you cannot tell.” 

“ Do 1 not?” he said, quietly. “ Every heart knows its 


“J/K LOFE IS MY TORTURE:^ 


271 


own bitterness ; but do you really care so much, so very 
much for me, Ailie?” 

“Yes/’ she replied; and her voice was sweeter than 
music with its own passion. “I vish — ^just now, while 
the moon shines on us, and the night wind whispers on us 
— I wish I could tell you how much I love you. I should 
be content then to die, because you would understand. 
Let me try.” 

She stood a little distance from him ; the moonlight fell 
on her face, making an aureole round her head. He thought 
to himsef, though he did not love her, that she had the 
beauty of a Greek goddess and the passion of a living 
woman. 

“Let me only try to tell you,” she said. “One of the 
saddest love-stories I know is that of Theseus and Adriadne. 
I love you as she loved him. I see no one else in all the 
crowd of faces that fills the world ; I see yours, only yours 
— and I see it every minute. I see it by night and by day ; 
it smiles in my dreams, it shines down on me from the 
skies, it looks up to me from laughing waters, it lies in the 
leaves of flowers, in the pages of books, in the light of the 
sun, in the beams of the moon; there is no spot in the 
wide world where I do not see it ; and let me tell you — I 
may never have a chance to speak to you again — let me 
tell you that it wears for me a beauty no other face could 
ever wear ; it is the face of a king — it is noble, and grand, 
and perfect; I have thought sometimes that if it would 
but once soften and smile for me, I would be quite con- 
tent to die.” 

A deep, passionate cry stopped the quick current of 
words. She went on : 

“ I live in my thoughts of you — I work, I talk to others, 
I seem to be engaged in different occupations, yet in my 


272 


AILIE^S PROMISE. 


heart there is always burning, like clear flame, my love for 
you. All the world is blank, except the one spot where 
you are, and that is heaven V* 

He took her hand gently in his own, and held it there. 
‘*You love me so dearly as that?” he said. “Poor 
Ailie — poor child ! What am I to say to you ?” 

And the night wind, whispering in the trees, seemed to 
re-echo his words. 


CHAPTER XL. 
ailie’s promise. 

“What can I say to you, Ailie?” he repeated. “Only 
this — learn to love me less, child ; love me less.” 

“I cannot,” she replied ; “and even if I could, I would 
not. I would rather love you unhappily, as I do, without 
hope of return, than I would love another who should 
worship me. My love tortures me, I love the pain; it 
stabs me, I kiss the wound ; it binds me fast, I love the 
chains. I would not change my lot with that of the hap- 
piest woman living, because it is you I love — only you !” 

“ My poor Ailie — poor child !” he said, gently; and she 
saw by the light of the moon that tears stood in his eyes. 

“ Do not pity me,” she said ; “ I do not wish to make 
you sad. I read the other day a story that struck me as 
no other has ever done — the story of ‘ Patient Griselda ' 
I am something like her. Nothing that you could do or 
say — no coldness, no unkindness, could change my love 
or alter it, lessen it or make it colder. I could bear all 


AILIE'S PROMISE. 


273 


things from your hands. If you were to kill me, I should 
bless you as I died. You might remove a mountain, stop 
the flow of the tide, tell the sun not to shine, bid the stars 
give no light, and all would be more easily done than my 
love could be changed or lessened.” 

He looked gravely at her. 

“You think, then, Ailie, that you could suffer as Patient 
Griselda did ?” 

“I am quite sure,” she replied. “Tiyme — only try 
me I I think I should love suffering for your sake — it 
would be so easy to bear. I should forget that it was pain 
if it were borne for ^ou.” 

“But, Ailie,” he said, “do you know that this is the 
very sublimity of love — the love that gives all and expects 
nothing in return ? It is heroic love. ” 

“ Is it?” she said, indifferently. “ I do not know — I do 
not understand. It is the plain, honest, simple truth.” 

He looked greatly perplexed. 

“Do you know,” he said, “that I would far rather — a 
thousand times rather — that you disliked me?” 

“Would you?” she asked, wonderingly. 

“Yes; because for all this great love of yours, I have 
nothing to give you,” he replied. 

“Ido not want anything, ” she said. 

“ But a man does not care to be outdone in generosity. 
It is as though you gave me some priceless jewel — some 
great, rich treasure, and I have nothing to give you. ” 

• “Yes, you have; you could make me happy with so 
little. Lord Carsdale — so little that you would be cruel to 
refuse it. I will ask you one favor, and if you grant that, 

I am repaid — mofe than repaid.” 

He dropped the little white hand that he had been hold- 


A /LIE'S PROMISE. 


274 

ing in his own ; he looked uneasily at her. What was she 
going to ask him ? 

“ Let me hear what it is, Ailie. We must be prudent, 
you know.” 

Her beautiful lips curled slightly, and he thought to 
himself, how scornful she could be if she chosd* 

“I will never forget that prudence is your favorite 
virtue. Lord Carsdale,” she said. 

“You may save me all sarcasm, Ailie; I do not deserve 
it. Tell me what the favor is. ” 

It was hard to look up in that cold face and say what 
she wished to say ; but it must be done — she would not 
flinch. 

“I will tell you,” she said. “Let me stay here; do 
not send me away.” 

“It is impossible,” he replied, curtly. “ Do not think 
of such a thing.” 

She laid her soft, white hand in his, and it was not in 
human nature to resist the appeal of that soft, caressing 
touch. 

“It is not impossible. Lord Carsdale,” she said. “I 
might have remained here for long weeks without your 
knowing me. I will be so careful ; I will never speak to 
you, never look at you, never utter your name. I will be 
prudence itself. No one shall ever guess that I have seen 
you before ; but let me stay. Oh, my love, my love, let 
me stay !” * 

“Why do you wish it so much ? Why do you desire it 
so much 

“Why?” she asked. “Because I shall be near you; 
even though I may never see you or utter your name, I 
shall be near you. I shall breathe the same air you 
breathe, I shall look on the same faces, listen to the same 


A I LIE'S PROMISE. 


275 


voices. I shall see you sometimes when you pass by — in 
the morning, when you are going out to drive or to ride ; 
at night, when you are tired, and the hour of rest comes. 
I shall hear you speak, even though not one word that 
you utter comes to me. I shall sometimes have to do 
little things for you. Lady Waldrove will tell me to mend 
your gloves, to cut your books, to get your papers ready, 
and it will be heaven on earth to me — really heaven on 
earth. I do not ask you to be kind to me, or speak to 
me, or take even the least notice of me — only let me live 
near you. It is not much, but it will make heaven on 
earth for me. " 

“ Poor child \” he said, pityingly ; “it seems little.'' 

“Yes ; but it is so much to me — so much." 

“ Ailie," said Lord Carsdale, gravely, “have you thought 
of what you are asking ? If, as you say, you love me so 
very much, will it not add to your pain? You will be near 
me, yet farther off ; you will see me speaking to others, 
and you will not, perhaps, like it." 

Then his voice faltered, and the words died away on 
his lips. 

“I know that," she said, “ I shall have much to suffer, 
I shall have some terrible pain; but I have weighed it 
over, and I say to the pain and the sorrow, ‘ welcome, 
thrice welcome,' since you came from my love. I will 
bear it all with a smile, only to be near you, my love, my 
love !" 

He was touched more than he cared to own. There is 
yet another thing. 

“You think you love me so very much. Shall you 
always be sure of yourself — shall you always be discreet 
and prudent? Remember that want of self-control, even 
for one moment, would ruin us both." 


276 


AILIE^S PROMISE, 


“ I can answer for myself/' she said, proudly. “ Because 
I love you, do you think me weak ?" 

I do not,” he replied. 

She took courage from his kinder tone. 

‘ ‘ Let me stay, Lord Carsdale, ” she said. ‘ ‘ I,will promise 
you faithfully, that at the very first shadow of anger to you 
or to me, I will go — I will not linger one moment Until 
that time comes, do not shut the face of the smiling 
heavens away from me.” 

I will not,” he said ; “you shall stay. I know I am 
weak in yielding, but I cannot send you away. Poor Ailie 1 
and so you have learned to love me so dearly. You shall 
stay, and I will trust to your honor ; yet I shall be better 
content if you repeat your promise. Place, your hands in 
mine” — she placed her hands in his, and stood looking up 
at him with a rapt expression of face that was very beauti- 
ful. ‘ ‘ Say after me : ‘ I promise never, even under pain of 
death, to reveal the secret of my marriage. ’ ” 

She repeated the words, slowly and solemnly.. 

“I trust you, Ailie,” he said; “and now, do you not 
think it would be wise and well for you to return ? It is 
very late, and I should not like you to run any risk.” 

“Yes; I will go,” she said. 

Then she stood quite still for a few minutes, looking at 
him. Had he no kinder word — had he not even a 
brothers kiss to give her, after all these long years? He 
saw the pathetic wistfulness on her face, but did not under- 
stand it. He understood every expression, every change on 
Lady Ethel’s face ; but this was a sealed page to him. 

“Good-night, Ailie,” he said, holding out his hand. 
“If, in my surprise at seeing you, I said anything very 
harsh, you must please forgive me. I was excited, and did 
not measure my words.” 


AILIE'S PROMISE. 


277 

She bowed her fair face over the strong hand held out 
to her. 

“I have nothing to forgive,” she replied. “You have 
been very kind to me. Good-by.” 

The next moment she had passed from his sight, and 
the moonbeams fell on the grass where she had stood. He 
did not move ; long ago he had forgotten all about his 
cigar and why he was there ; he could not at first recover 
from the shock. What he said seemed cruel, but it was 
perfectly true — he h d almost forgotten her. The fact of 
his marriage he had not, and never could, forget; but he 
had almost forgotten her — her features, her voice. If he 
had met her suddenly, he would not have recognized her. 

He felt very sad and very much surprised. That she 
should have grown into such a passionate, loving, earnest 
woman, astonished him as much as her beautiful face had 
done; and she loved him so completely, so entirely. 

“It was ten thousand pities!” he said to himself. 
“ Here, for one act of boyish folly, three people are made 
miserable for life — Lady Ethel, my golden-haired love, 
whose life is made miserable because of her love ; Ailie, 
who will never be happy ; last of all, I, myself, who love a 
woman I can never marry, and am married to a woman I 
can never love.” 

What a wreck of love, of life, of happiness it all seemed 
— three lives all spoiled ; for he said to himself that, though 
she was beautiful exceedingly, he should never love her. 
Only one woman had power to touch his heart, and that 
woman was never to be his. 

He could never recover 4rom the shock. It seemed 
almost terrible to him that this girl, through whom his 
life had been marred, should have been living in this' 
house — the house that was one day to be his. It had been 


278 


AILIE'S PROMISE. 


a shock to him to find Lady Ethel at Roseneath ; it would 
riot have happened but that he left Gibraltar two months 
before the time originally named. Lady Ethel had ac- 
cepted the invitation to Roseneath without the faintest 
notion that she should see him there ; it had been by the 
purest accident they met. Had Lady Ethel *Been quite 
wise when she heard that he was expected, she would have 
started off at once, and so have avoided him ; but she did 
not know the barrier that divided them, and she longed 
with all her heart to see him again. 

Lord Carsdale, to do him justice, was not delighted 
altogether when he found that Lady Ethel was there ; he 
loved her, and he knew that this love was to be crushed. 
He said to himself it was unfortunate that she was there; 
still he could not be rude or abrupt. He knew that it 
would be better, and she would suffer less, if he went away 
at once ; but then, as he said to himself, he had been away 
some five years ; it would look ill-bred and awkward if he 
went away again — in fact, he could not do it. He prom- 
ised himself, however, that he would be, for all that, most 
courteous. He was a man of honor — it was not likely 
that he should do or say anything that would be better 
left undone. Before he had been twenty-four hours with 
Lady Ethel, he said to himself that it would have been a 
thousand times better and safer had he never returned. 


A AT EMBAJiJ^ASSING SITUATION. 


279 


CHAPTER XLI. 

AN EMBARRASSING SITUATION. 

Ailie had not much difficulty in getting back to her 
room. She was astonished to find how long she had been 
absent ; the stars were shining when she went out, now 
there was something very like the first gray tint of dawn in 
the skies. Another thing that startled her was, the door 
of her room was open, and she remembered distinctly 
having closed it. Whether she had not fastened the lock, 
or whether some one had entered it, she could not say. 

She looked around ; there was no trace of any strange 
presence. She listened intently, but she could hear no 
sound. 

‘^Surely no one has been here,” she thought; “if 
so ” 

But the consequences were something of which she 
could not and would not think. 

It could not be possible. Who would be about the 
house at this time of night, or, rather, morning? She 
tried to reassure herself, but the fright had been terrible ; 
her lips were white and dumb, her limbs trembled, her 
strength seemed to have left her. Then she tried to re- 
assure herself — to say to herself that it was all a nervous 
fright. She listened again and again ; there was still no 
sound; then her courage returned. It must have been 
that she left the door unfastened. She listened for half an 
hour, then, all being silent, came to the conclusion that 
she had been mistaken. 

But there was no sleep for her and no rest It seemed 


28 o 


AN EMBARRASSING SITUATION 


to her that her brain would never cease throbbing or her 
nerves thrilling with subdued excitement. It was all so 
wonderful and so strange that Lord Carsdale, the son and 
heir of this famous peer — that he should be her husband — 
that they should be living in the same house, yet farther 
apart than though they were strangers — that she should 
have talked to him — have told him how she loved him — 
have told him of this deep, passionate love of hers which 
she had kept so entirely secret from him. Yet the heavens 
had not fallen ; she was still living, even after that 

How strange and terrible it would be to her to be always 
near him, yet to be a stranger to him. Then she wan- 
dered off into a thousand soft, sweet fancies — he had 
grown so much handsomer, this gallant young lordling; 
the boyish beauty of his face had changed, he had grown 
bronzed, manly. 

“ He looks like a king,” she thought; “he is the hand- 
somest and the noblest man in the world. ” 

Her heart beat as she remembered how he had spoken 
to her. 

All in time — in time. Let the summer sun rise and 
set, let the leaves grow green and fall a few times, and by 
that time he would love — he must love her. She would 
try to win him as no woman had ever tried to win a man 
before ; but she must be cautious, prudent, careful. She 
looked up at the blue skies where the first crimson dawn 
of morning shone, and she cried out with a great cry that 
God, who clothed the lilies and fed the little birds, would 
take care of. her and give her the one gift she craved — her 
husband’s love. 

Then she laid her fair head on the pillow and tried to 
sleep, but sleep would not come to her — would not be 
wooed. Every moment she was going over and over 


AN- EMBAJ^RASSING SITUATION, 


281 


again every word of that interview, every incident, every 
change in his face, in his voice — there could be no rest for 
her. She owned to herself that she had seen surprise, 
wonder, bewilderment, but not love ; she owned to herself 
thkt his first emotion on seeing her was one of annoyance, 
but all that would be ended, and he would love her in 
time. 

It was useless to lie there with the lovely summer sun 
shining round her, the song of the birds filling the air ; 
she would go out again and see if the cool, sweet wind 
would still the fever that ran hot in her veins. 

She dressed and went out again, through the cool shade 
of green woods this time, and the soft light, the sweet 
music, the perfume of the flowers, did what her own 
thoughts could not do^ — quieted her. The breakfast-bell 
was ringing when she re-entered the Abbey. She hastened 
to Lady Waldrove's room, but the countess had gone to 
her morning-room, where Ailie followed her. 

have not slept well,” said my lady, languidly. “I 
cannot tell why ; I am not quite myself. I shall rest here 
in this room ; and. Miss Derwent, you can read to me ; if 
you read me to sleep so much the better.” 

Lady Waldrove looked well enough, but Ailie knew that 
even her fancies were serious matters. 

The maid was dispatched to say that Lady Waldrove 
would be pleased to see Lady Ethel in her morning-room, 
also to ask Lord Carsdale if he would join the countess. 
No one saw or cared that the fair face of Ailie Derwent 
flushed hot crimson as she heard. 

She looked very beautiful that morning; the countess 
had expressed a half wish that she would wear gray dresses 
always ; she did not like to see her in anything else ; and, 
as the matter was one of perfect indifference to Ailie, she . 


282 


AN £MBAJ^RASSING SITUATION. 


complied obediently enough. For the morning she wore 
a plain high dress of some pretty gray material, in the 
evening a richer dress of gray silk, with her favorite silver 
fringe. 

If Lady Waldrove had purposely chosen a ^tyle that she 
thought suitable for the enhancing of Ailie’s beauty, she 
could have selected nothing better than the soft, pearly 
gray — the soft folds that showed every graceful line and 
curve of that beautiful figure, the subdued tint that placed 
in such glorious contrast the lovely pearly coloring of the 
face and the snowy whiteness of the neck. Ailie had been 
tired from want of sleep, but the morning air had given to 
her the rriost delicate and dainty bloom. 

Lady Waldrove lay in her most picturesque and languid 
attitude ; the twin dogs had evidently resolveJ^upon making 
the most of a fine day — they had placed themselves in dif- 
ferent attitudes of comfort ; and Ailie sat patiently with a 
volume of Mrs. Mary J. Holmes’, waiting the countess’ 
pleasure. 

It was quite suddenly that the door opened, and Lord 
Carsdale entered. The light that came through the rose- 
colored blinds was so subdued he did not at first see Ailie. 
He went up to his mother and kissed her, then started' as 
he saw the golden head and fair face at her side. 

Lady Waldrove saw him start and mistook the cause. 

“You know my companion. Miss Derwent?” she said, 
carelessly. “You need not stand upon ceremony. Do 
not leave the room. Miss Derwent. I want you to get this 
pattern right for me, if you can. ” 

Ailie took up the intricate piece of fancy work and went 
over to the window. She heard the countess say, in a low 
voice, to her son : 

“You need never stand upon any kind of ceremony 


AN EMBARRASSING SITUATION. 


283 

with her. She’s very good, and all that kind of thing. 
She seems to know her place. I can always talk before 
her, and that is one great advantage.” 

Lord Carsdale made no reply. Indeed, his lady-mother 
gave him no chance, for she cried, suddenly : 

^‘Vivian, what time did you go to your room last 
night? It was your fault that I had such a bad night. I 
lay awake listening for you until after two. What are you 
blushing for? Why, Vivian, I have never seen you blush 
before. ” 

He laughed awkwardly, but from the silent figure at the 
window came no sound. 

“I must be ashamed of myself for keeping you awake, 
mother,” he stammered. 

“It must have been after two when you did find your 
way in. W’here were you all that time ?” 

“In the grounds,” he replied. “The night was so^fine 
and the moon so clear. It is long since I have seen such 
a night in England. ” 

“ Humph !” said my lady. “Your love for nature has 
wonderfully increased if it prompts you to sit from twelve 
to three watching the light of the moon. Ah I how care- 
less you are, Vivian — you have broken my fan.” 

The delicate ivory handle had snapped in two as his 
clasp had tightened around it. 

. “Miss Derwent, do come, my dear, and see if you can 
do anything with this. It is my favorite fan, too.” 

She would have given anything to have excused herself. 
It seemed to her impossible that she should go near her 
husband; but no one ever disobeyed Lady Waldrove. 
She came 'over to them, and as she half stooped to find 
one piece, Vivian gave her the other. Their hands 
touched, their eyes met. He drew back with a half- 


284 EMBARRASSING SITUATION. 

embarrassed bow; she grew crimson and turned awa^. 
Lady Waldrove gave a half kind of sigh at their stupidity. 
Why need people in such thoroughly distinct and different 
classes be embarrassed with each other? ,, 

“Do try, my dear, if you can have it repaired?” said 
the countess, languidly. “It is the first time I have 
known Lord Carsdale awkward.” 

He bent down to kiss his mother’s hand, longing to get 
away; it was so awkward being in the same room with 
Ailie, yet unable to speak to her ; it was a most stupidly 
false position for her to have placed him in. She must 
have read his thoughts, or guessed them from the darken- 
ing of his face, for she turned abruptly away to resume her 
work. 

“You shall have the most elegant fan in London, 
mother. I will go to town for the express purpose of 
choosing one for you, ” he said ; but she looked at him in 
her plaintive, languid fashion. 

“It is not so much the fan, my dear Vivian. What 
troubles me is that you should be awkward. A gentleman 
should be able to hold a rose-leaf without crushing it. I 
have such a great dread of an awkward man. ” 

He laughed ; his mother’s pathos always amused him ; 
then he rose from his seat — it was unendurable, this kind 
of thing. 

“You are not surely dreaming of going, Vivian?” said 
the countess, sharply. “ I thought you would sit with me 
this morning and tell me about — about Gibraltar, if you 
have no other news. You do not know how I have bribed 
you to stay.” 

“I need no bribing to stay with you, mother,” he 
replied, quickly. 

Lady Waldrove lauglied. 


A CRUSHED FLOWER, 


285 


“Still I have bribed you. I have sent for Lady Ethel.” 

There was one moment of embarrassed silence, during 
which husband and wife again looked at each other. 

“That will not bribe me, mother,” he said; “but if 
you wish me to stay I will.” 

Then, with his usual sunny humor, he made himself 
agreeable to her — told her absurd anecdotes of military 
life at Gibraltar; he played with the dogs, decided that 
Castor had more than ordinary intelligence; and in the 
midst of his efforts to please his fine lady-mother, the door 
opened again, and Lady Ethel entered the room. 


CHAPTER LXII. 

A CRUSHED FLOWER. 

Lady Waldrove looked up at the beautiful woman with a 
smile. 

“ 1 am not given to poetry, Lady Ethel,” she said,, “but 
when I see you I always think of the bright sun chasing 
away the dark night. Come in — come and join us. Vivian 
is telling me some excellent stories. ” 

Lady Ethel went up to the couch whereon her dainty 
ladyship lay. 

“Make us all comfortable, Vivian,” said the countess ; 
“this is quite a family party. 'Place that arm-chair here, 
and take that footstool for yourself. ” 

All of which he did with an air of great embarrassment. 
Lady Ethel wondering why he was so unlike himself, Ailie 
listening with all her senses quickened by that jealous, pas- 
sionate, terrible love. 


286 


A CRUSHED FLOWER. 


“ Miss Derwent, child,” said the countess, “if any one 
comes to the door refuse to let them in ; I am going to be 
comfortable after my own style for a short time.” 

Ailie gave one quick, keen glance; she saw* the perfect 
content on Lady Ethel’s face, the confusion cn her hus- 
band’s. Even the tone of their voices differed — Lady 
Ethel’s was joyous, hearty, full of sweet music and sweet 
laughter — Lord Carsdale’s sad, constrained, and embar- 
rassed. Lady Waldrove looked up with a little petulant 
laugh. 

“Gibraltar has not improved you, Vivian,” she said ; 
“you used to be the most lively and amusing of com- 
panions, now you have nothing to say; you have very 
much changed.” 

“You fancy so, mother,” he replied, carelessly. 

“Nay, I am sure — quite sure. Now, Lady Ethel, you 
shall be our umpire. Do you think that my son has im- 
proved — or the contrary — during his long absence?” 

Lady Ethel looked with a bright, warm smile into the 
face before her. 

“Improved!” she said. “I do not understand. I do 
not see the faults you see in him.” 

“Which implies that you see none,” laughed the count- 
ess. “Then I must yield. Perhaps, after all, mine is 
but a fancy; he seems to me older, graver, and to have 
something like a shadow hanging over him — indeed, if I 
did not know that his life w'as an open book, I should say 
that he had a disagreeable secret to keep. ” 

And Ailie, looking up quickly, saw how his face dark- 
ened at his mother’s words. 

“Why should I have a secret? and what secret should 
I have?” he asked, quickly. “Mother, you say strange 
things. ” 


A CRUSHED FLOWER. 


287 


I may be quite wrong,” she said ; “but then you see, 
Vivian, I love you, and I watch you. What are you think- 
ing of when your eyes grow dark and your face all shadow } 
when you rouse with a deep, sudden sigh .? when you clench 
your fingers, as you did just now round my poor fan.?” 

“ How can I tell.?” he replied. “ Men think of a hun- 
dred things each minute. Defend me, Lady Ethel. Do 
you suspect me of having a secret .?” 

She raised her beautiful eyes, which had in them an 
expression of most perfect love and trust. 

“I never suspect you,” she said, simply; “you are like 
Caesar’s wife to me — above suspicion.” 

He bowed, he could not trust himself to speak ; but 
Ailie heard and saw it all. Then Lady Waldrove changed 
the conversation, greatly to her son’s relief; but Lady Ethel 
wondered very much. The time had been when, if he had 
a chance of talking to her, nothing could equal his delight 
or his animation ; now he seemed to count his words. 
How could she guess that every one of these words was 
like a stab to the gentle girl whose fair face was turned 
from them? So, presently, when the countess quitted the 
room in search of a letter she wanted to show her son. 
Lady Ethel turned to him. The quiet girl in the gray 
dress, working so busily, was of less moment to her than 
the pictures on the wall, or the carpet on the floor. She 
did not even lower her voice lest Ailie should hear her. 
Who was Ailie, indeed, that she should have ears to hear? 

“Lord Carsdale,” she said, “have I displeased you — 
vexed you in any way ?” 

He gave one quick look at Ailie, his wife. What would 
she think of such a question? 

“No,” he replied, in a shy, constrained voice. “We 


288 


A CRUSHED FLOWER. 


are all in the humor for fancies this morning. What could 
have given you such an impression, Lady Ethel ?” 

“I cannot tell; your reply has only deepened it,'’ she 
answered ; and for once in his life Lord C^fsdale was ready 
to almost curse the perversity of fate. 

Then the countess returned. He saw the wounded ex- 
pression on the beautiful face that he loved so dearly, but 
he could say nothing. What was there to say ? 

You have not been quarreling during my absence, I 
hope, " said Lady Waldrove, looking from one to the other. 

“You may be quite sure that we have not,” said Lady 
Ethel ; but in some vague way the little meeting that years 
ago had always been so pleasant, was now a confused, em- 
barrassed hour from which Lord Carsdale longed to escape. 

He was the first to go, and, when the door closed behind 
him, the countess looked mournfully at Lady Ethel. 

“ He is so sadly changed, my dear. What can it be.?” 
and Lady Ethel had no answer to make. 

Later on that same day it pleased the countess to go 
through the conservatories; some superb white hyacinths 
were just in the perfection of bloom. Lord Carsdale had 
joined his mother, and admired the white flowers very 
much. He did not speak to or look at Ailie — every hour 
he found the position in which she had placed him more 
and more distasteful. She walked by Lady Waldrove, who 
stood now in raptures over the hyacinths. 

“ How tall, and white, and stately they are!” she said. 
“Do you know, Vivian, of whom those flowers remind 
me?” 

“ No,” he replied ; but Ailie saw a pleased, startled con- 
sciousness in his face. 

“They remind me of Lady Ethel,” said the countess; 


289 


A CRUSHED FLOWER. 

always think of her when I see them. Take this, 
Vivian, the finest, the whitest, and most fragrant. Never 
mind the gardeners; as I always tell your father, they are 
our servants, not our masters. Take this one.'’ 

He complied ; then taking it from his hand, she gave it 
to Ailie. 

•‘Miss Derwent,” she said, “I know you do not mind 
a trifling commission; will you take this to Lady Ethel.? 
Give it to her with Lord Carsdale’s compliments ; and add 
to that — I hope to see her wearing it at dinner.” 

She held out the flower, and Ailie turned to look at 
her; the beautiful, passionate face flushed hotly, her eyes 
flashed. 

Lord Carsdale was alarmed ; he spoke hastily : 

“Nay, mother, do not do that; she will not like it, 
indeed.” 

“Nonsense! I know best what she will like,” said the 
countess. “You never needed reminding of such acts of 
politeness before you left England.” 

“]\Iiss — Miss Derwent,” said Lord Carsdale, and his 
voice trembled so that his mother looked at him in won-' 
der — “Miss Derwent — stay — I ” 

But the countess laughingly touched Ailie’s hand. 

“Go, and give my message,” she said ; “then come to 
my dressing-room, if you please, Miss Derwent.” 

She did not look at her husband — she dare not ; but 
the temptation was strong upon her to fling the beautiful 
hyacinth on the ground and trample it to death. But she 
must obey. The passion deepened on her beautiful face. 
Was it to be borne or to be endured that she should cany 
flowers from him to lie on the golden hair or the white 
breast of a woman whom she was beginning to suspect 
loved him.? Yet she must obey. 


290 


A CRUSHED FLOWER. 


Lady Ethel was in her dressing-room, and in answer to 
the rap at her door, said : 

“Come in.” 

When Ailie had given her message, Lady Ethel looked 
at her, with a smile. 

“My dear Miss Derwent, how tragical you are!” she 
said. “ If you were presenting me with a dagger, instead 
of a flower, I should not be so much surprised. It is very 
beautiful, but I cannot understand why Lord Carsdale did 
not bring it himself.” 

“Nor can I, if he wished you to wear it,” said Ailie. 

“Sit down,” said Lady Ethel; “you look pale and 
tired. I often admire your patience ; you never seem to 
have one moment’s rest. Sit down, and look at this book 
of comic engravings. We will go down together.” 

Ailie was glad of a few minutes’ rest ; she had followed 
the countess for hours — reading, talking, supplying all the 
losses of memory, the lost dates, lost names, etc. She 
looked round this beautiful and luxurious room — a fitting 
shrine for the beautiful woman who stood in it. Did her 
husband care for Lady Ethel? She could hardly believe 
it. Certainly, sending the flower had not been his fault at 
all. Then she looked at the beautiful, stately flower, with 
its luscious perfume. Should it nestle in the white breast 
of Lady Ethel? Should she, talking to her, bend low, 
inhale its perfume, and see how she valued his present? 
Her heart beat fast as she thought of it. No, never; that 
should never be ! The blood seemed to boil in her veins 
at the thought of it. Never 1 she could not wear the 
flowers he loved and chose, but no other one should. 
She rose from her seat and went to the pale, beautiful 
hyacinth ; the next minute it was lying in shreds on the 
ground. 


A CRUSHED FLOWER. 


291 

Lady Ethel looked up, with a little cry of dismay, never 
dreaming that it had been done on purpose. 

“You have broken my flower, Miss Derwent! What 
will Lord Carsdale say ?” 

“Shall I go and find you another one like it?” asked 
Ailie. 

“No; it would not be the same thing; it would no^ 
have the same value. How did it happen?” 

She was half tempted to tell her, but that would be a 
base betrayal of the secret. Fortunately, Lady Ethel sel- 
dom waited for an answer. She took up the pieces with a 
pretty, caressing gesture, for which Ailie hated her. 

“You will wonder why 1 do not wear the flower you 
sent me,” she said to Lord Carsdale. “Miss Derwent was 
very unfortunate — she broke it.” 

And looking at the flushed face of his young wife, it 
seemed to him that he understood perfectly how it hap- 
pened. No more was said about it, but Lord Carsdale 
thought a great deal. This was to be avoided ; not for 
the whole world would he have Ailie grow jealous of peer- 
less Lady Ethel. 

“She is so imprudent,” he said to himself, “so impul- 
sive, that if ever she becomes jealous it will be the ruin of 
everything. ” 

Every hour the unpleasant position in which Ailie had 
placed them both became clearer to him ; he saw no way 
out of it, and every hour he grew more unhappy; for he 
realized the terrible fact that, do as he would — strive, 
struggle, fight, endure — there was but one way out of his 
difficulty, and that would be by trying to get a divorce 
from Ailie Derwent. It was a shadowy idea — he never 
even made it clear to his own mind ; still it was there, and 
he fought hard against it. 


A TRYING POi^lTIQN 


292 


CHAPTER XLIIL 

A TRYING POSITION. 

“Miss Derwent,” said Lady Waldrove, “I have been 
searching everywhere for ‘ Dawley s Poems/ You know 
the book — crimson and gold ; you must have seen it ?” 

“Yes, I have seen it,” replied Ailie; “it is on the 
library table. ” 

“Will you find it for me? Mr. Dawley is coming to 
dine with us to-morrow, and as he sent me a copy of his 
poems, I must know something about them before he 
comes. It would be quite as well if you copied out a few 
lines here and there, that I could use as quotations — it 
w'ould look attentive, and I could easily bring them in. Go 
now, will you.” 

And Ailie hastened to obey the countess ; she went to 
the library, and the first thing that she saw was Lady Ethel, 
seated in one of the large leathern arm-chairs, which had 
been placed near the open window, and by her side sat 
Lord Carsdale. 

Ailie had opened the door.,and entered the room before 
they saw or heard her ; then Lady Ethel looked up with 
a careless smile, wondering why Lord Carsdale should start 
as though suddenly detected in something wrong. 

“Good-morning, Miss Derwent,” she said, indifferently, 
then forgot her. 

Lord Carsdale bowed. He looked half in wonder at 
this fair, graceful woman with the tragically beautiful face 
and sad, sweet eyes ; this was his wife — she at present bore 
his name. She was Lady Carsdale. He half rose from 


A TRYING POSITION. 


293 


his seat, but the expression of wonder in Lady Ethel s 
face restrained him ; he sat down again while the brilliant 
beauty continued her conversation. 

Alice looked on the table ; there was no sign of the 
book ; she went to the book-cases, but Dawley's Poems 
seemed to have disappeared. Then Lady Ethel addressed 
her : 

“ Have you lost a book. Miss Derwent?” she inquired. 

Then Ailie told her what she was looking for — and why. 

Lord Carsdale laughed. 

‘‘That is so like my mother,” he said. “The only 
thing to be feared is that she will make the said quotations 
in the wrong place.” 

Then Lady Ethel remembered having seen the book on 
a certain shelf, and there Ailie found it She held it for a 
few moments in her hand deliberating. 

“ Thope,” thought Lady Ethel, “ that she is not going 
to make her extracts here.” 

She was enjoying her conversation with Lord Carsdale 
and did not wish to be interrupted ; while Alice was deadly 
sick and faint with the bitterest pain of jealousy that could 
burn or. stab a human heart. She could not bear to see 
her husband’s handsome head bending over the golden 
hair of Lady Ethel. He was hers, her husband — not 
Lady Ethel’s ; it was hard and cruel. She could not, she 
would not bear it. Her face flushed hotly and her lips 
quivered. She felt that she must cry out to him — that she 
mu«t say : 

“Turn those beautiful eyes of yours from him; he is 
not yours. Do not look at him or smile at him. Cease 
to try to win him — he is mine, not yours ; he can never 
be yours, for he has married me.” 

The impulse was so strong that she bit her lips until 


294 


A TRYING POSITION. 


the pain became insupportable. She saw on the face of 
her rival, Lady Ethel, that which she had never seen before. 
She knew that she ought to go, that it was an intrusion on 
her part to remain in the room, but she could not tear her- 
self away. The blood was boiling in her veins, her heart 
was beating fast. How could she bear it? She longed 
for one word from his lips, as thirsty flowers long for dew ; 
she longed for a word, a look, a caress ; but she might as 
well have longed for the moon. While the eyes with 
which he looked on Lady Ethel were bright and tender, 
she could not tear herself away. She sat down at the table 
and opened the book ; she drew pen, and ink, and paper 
toward her, but how was she to make the quotations? The 
letters swam before her eyes, there was a great mist before 
the page ; she could only say over and over again to her- 
self that he was her husband, and she could not, she would 
not bear that he should talk in that fashion to another 
woman. The tender heart was torn into a thousand doubts 
and fears. She h^ard Lady Ethel say, “You are variable 
as an April morning. Lord Carsdale. Half an hour ago 
you were all that was bright and pleasant; now you are 
distracted. You are speaking to me with your thoughts 
somewhere else.” Ailie heard it, and quite involuntarily 
she looked at her husband, and their eyes met. He said 
to himself it was intolerable, a system of espionage, and 
he would not submit How could he endure the wistful, 
earnest gaze of those sad, sweet eyes? 

“I am doing her no harm,” he thought; “why need 
she look like an embodied reproach at me ?” 

No; it was not to be endured — men never endure a 
thing that can be cured. He knew the remedy in this 
case — it was his own absence from the room. Yet, although 
he was annoyed with her for being there, he wanted her to 


A TR YING POSITION. 


295 


know that she was mistaken, that he was not talking non- 
sense to Lady Ethel, that they were not even flirting, as 
her grave look seemed to imply. Yet why need he study 
her? She had no right to watch him and look reproach- 
fully at him. 

“Are you going?" asked Lady Ethel; “then our 
pleasant hour is ended. " 

She saw his glance rest lightly on the bowed head of his 
young wife. She misunderstood at once, and believed 
that he did not care to remain talking to her because Ailie 
was present. 

“Are you really going. Lord Carsdale?” she repeated; 
“we have not finished our argument." 

There was something of impatience in the tone as he 
replied : 

“ I have promised to look at some horses this morning; 
my mother is making me a present of one, I must say 
au revoir, Lady Ethel. " 

He bowed as he passed Ailie, and quitted the room. 
The young wife breathed more freely as he went away ; 
true, she missed the light of his presence, but she was 
saved the pain of seeing him talk to another. A cloud 
came over the beautiful face of Lady Ethel ; it was simply 
intolerable, she thought, in her angry jealousy, that Ailie 
should have the power of entering the library when she 
liked, and of driving Lord Carsdale away. Evidently he 
had quitted the room because he did not care to speak 
much before his mother’s companion. Still she was too 
sweet-tempered and too amiable to say much. She crossed 
the room, and looked at the book — at the blank paper. 

“You do not seem to have made much progress with 
your work,"' she said, quietly. “ Do you find a difficulty 
in choosing the quotations?” 


296 


A TRYING POSITION 


“ Yes,” replied Ailie; I think I will take the book to 
my own room, and do it there.” 

The thought that crossed Lady Ethel’s mind was — why 
had she not done that an hour before? Then her ieie-a-tete 
with Lord Carsdale need not have been interrupted. In 
Ailie s gentle heart there was just the least possible sensa- 
tion of pleasure, that for once she had, in a mute kind of 
w'av, asserted her rights. 

She wrote out her quotations, made a general review of 
the book, quickly found all that would be needful, then 
went to the countess with it. Lady Gertrude was in the 
room, talking to her mother, and Ailie w'aited until their 
interview was ended. 

“You have done what I wished, I see. Miss Derwent,” 
said the countess. “Now I must impress upon you not 
to let me forget the quotations. Begin this — ‘ Let my fair 
life,’ first. I rather like that, and it will please the poet.” 

Then the ring of horse’s hoofs was heard in the court- 
yard below, and the countess went to the window. A 
sudden, hot impulse of jealous anger prompted Ailie to 
follow her, and her ladyship did not resent what at another 
time she would have resented as a liberty. Ailie’s instinct 
had not misled her — there w^as Lady Ethel, looking more 
beautiful than ever in her riding-habit of dark blue cloth, 
and Lord Carsdale, with her, was looking to see if every- 
thing was safe and ready for her to mount. Then Ailie 
watched her husband as he helped Lady Ethel to mount. 
What was that shining in his handsome face, in his dark 
eyes.? What was it that reflected in Lady Ethel’s face 
made her look so unutterably happy ? 

“ I call that a touching picture,” said the countess, lan- 
guidly. “ They make a very handsome pair — do they not, 
Miss Derwent .?” Her very lips grew white as she tried to 


A TRYING POSITION. 


297 


murmur some answer; but the countess required none; 
whoever had been her companion, she would ha;e said the 
same thing. “The dearest wish of my heart would be 
gratified,” she said, gently, “if I could see my dear son 
married. I believe that I should grow younger then, in- 
stead of older, as the time passed on. I wish he would 
marry.” 

What^mad longing, what irresistible impulse urged her 
to say : 

“ He is married, and I am his wife.” 

The sound that came from her lips was so strange that 
Lady Waldrove looked round involuntarily. 

“I thought you spoke,” she said, seeing her compan- 
ion’s face white and still. “ I was just saying what J would 
give if I could see my dear son married ; and Lady Ethel is 
the only woman in England I should care to see him 
marry.” 

The unhappy young wife said something to the effect 
that he must marry whom he loved. The countess an- 
swered, musingly, that she believed he did love Lady Ethel. 

“ Indeed,” she continued, “ I never could imagine why 
he did not marry her before he w’ent abroad. I am quite 
sure that he liked her, and, unless I was very much mis- 
taken, she liked him. It seems so strange,” she continued, 
plaintively; “Lady Ethel is by far the most beautiful wo- 
man I have ever seen ; she is a great heiress, too, and be- 
longs to one of the noblest families in England. I cannot 
imagine why my son does not lall in love with her.” 

Lady Waldrove never knew what it was that made her 
look up so suddenly at the young face; she saw something 
there that made the light words die from her lips. 

“What a strange face you have, Miss Derwent!” she 
said, quickly; “you frighten me at times with that queer, 


298 


A YOUNG LADY^S HINT. 


fixed way of looking. What is it you see.? what are you 
thinking of?” 

It was well that Lady Waldrove did not know the ter- 
rible passion of grief, the rage of jealous despair in that 
young heart ; it was well that she could not read the pas- 
sion that thrilled every nerve ; but Ailie recovered herself. 
The words of the vow they had made were always before 
her; she would rather die than betray the^ ‘secret of her 
marriage. So she looked into the face of her husband's 
mother while she answered, slowly :* 

“There is always a fate in these things. Lord Carsdale 
will find his at the right time.” 

Then, as soon as she possibly could, she quitted the 
room, and the countess forgot all about the conversation. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

A YOUNG lady’s HINT. 

Lady Ethel Pierpont was curious ; she could not under- 
stand Lord Carsdale. That any man should resist her 
charms — should not learn to love her, when she almost 
sought his love, was incredible to her. She had not mar- 
ried for his sake, and because she loved him so well ; she 
had refused some of the most brilliant matches in Eng- 
land because she cared for him, and him only. She had 
always believed that when he came home again, when ne 
met her again, he would ask her to be his wife ; she had 
not doubted it ; but although she was here, and he seemed 
to like her better than ever, to admire her more than ever, 
he made no mention of love or marriage. Apart from her 


A YOUNG LADY^S HINT. 


299 


intense love of him, it puzzled her — she could not under- 
stand it. She had been so habituated to love, to offers of 
marriage, she could hardly understand one who refrained 
from both. She tried to find some valid reason, but she 
could not. It could not be difference of rank, there was 
so little. He would be a wealthy earl — it could not be a 
matter of fortune; and, if she was a judge of human 
nature, it could not be a matter of love, for most cer- 
tainly, if there was any truth in words or looks, he loved 
her. Of another thing beautiful Lady Ethel made no 
doubt — that was, he loved no other. She had watched 
him carefully, and the conclusion at which she had arrived 
was, that he cared for no other woman on earth except 
herself. 

The next thing was to look round the world and try, if 
possible, to find out what was the reason he said nothing 
to her — why he talked of every other subject on earth 
except love. There must be an impediment ; either in his 
early youth he had had some unfortunate love affair, or he 
had in some way engaged himself. Then, when the beau- 
tiful woman had come to this conclusion, she said to 
herself that she would wait — there was no difficulty in 
this world so great but that love and patience could over- 
come it. 

One lovely morning — the sun was warm and bright, and 
the air was' heavy with the breath of a thousand flowers 
— the countess expressed a wish that some comfortable 
.cushions and shawls should be placed for her under the 
’great cedar trees, and that her son and Lady Ethel should 
join here there ; and Ailie, hearing the plan, felt sick at 
heart with a great fear. She could see how the countess 
was doing her best always to bring them together. It must 
not be. She looked up, with a quiet, anxious face. 


300 


A YOUNG LADY'H HINT, 


“May I take some books for you, Lady Waldrove?” 

It was more indolence than anything else that prompted 
the countess to say : 

“Yes; bring them, if you will.” 

They went altogether; and, looking at her rival, Ailie 
owned to herself that the Lady Ethel was beautiful beyond 
women. On this bright morning she wore a plain muslin 
dress, white as snow, and fastened with crimson ribbons ; 
a garden hat shaded her eyes, and threw soft shadows on 
her face. 

The countess made herself comfortable ; her son loung- 
ing at her feet. Lady Ethel sitting by her side. They 
seemed to forget Ailie, who, with her books, sat at some 
little distance from them. They talked of people whose 
names were strange to her; but she noted with keen pain, 
even while he spoke to his mother, that his eyes were 
centered on Lady Ethel’s face. 

“He must love her,” thought the unhappy girl, “or 
he would not look at her so. He has not even glanced 
at me. ” 

That was perfectly true. He had never looked at her 
after the first impatient glance. It was too irritating that 
he should be thus continually reminded of his folly — that 
unfortunate marriage which had once seemed to him the 
very height of honor. True, seated under the great cedar, 
with the soft light falling on her golden hair and fair face, 
she was beautiful as a vision. Yet her beauty did not 
touch him ; his heart beat no faster for it, his eyes took no 
deeper light as they fell on her. She was not his “dream 
by the sea ;” and once finding her sweet, sad eyes fixed on 
him, he gave an impatient toss of his handsome head. 

“What a retinue you always like about you, mother,” 
he said. 


A YOUNG LADY'S HINT. 


301 


And the countess took the words as a compliment; but 
Lady Ethel understood them perfectly, and felt very angry 
with gentle Ailie. 

Just as might be imagined, the countess, after a time, 
fell asleep ; the warm, drowsy air, the odor of the flowers, 
the song of the birds, and the murmur of the trees, proved 
too much for her. 

Their voices sank lower — of course that was only natural, 
Ailie thought ; they did not care to disturb her ; yet her 
whole heart grew sick with jealous pain as she noted it. 
Why need Lady Ethel bend her head in that pretty, grace- 
ful way.? Why need Lord Carsdale look under the pretty 
brim of the hat.? Surely he could speak, and she could 
listen, without being so near together. Then she saw Lady 
Ethel raise her head in a pretty, petulant fashion natural 
to her. She looked at Ailie, and her eyes said plainly as 
eyes could speak : “Why do you not go away and leave 
us to talk together?" 

“Miss Derwent, would it not be as well if you found 
another shawl for Lady Waldrove? She may take cold," 
said Lady Ethel. 

And Ailie, looking at her, understood why she spoke. 

“ I shall not leave them together,” thought Ailie, as she 
compressed her lips; “they shall not talk to each other 
in the lovely summer sunshine, while I have to live with- 
out one word from him — he is my husband, not hers.” 

For an answer, she rose and drew the shawl closer 
round the countess. 

“She will be warmer now,” she said. “ I do not think 
Lady Waldrove likes me to leave her, even though she falls 
asleep. ” 

The words were spoken with a smile, so sad and so 
sweet Lady Ethel could not be vexed. She only thought 


302 


A YOUNG LADY^S HINT, 


the girl rather slow of understanding — “not accustomed 
to taking hints” — and Ailie looked up at her husband to 
see if she had annoyed him. She met his glance fully; 
his eyes seemed to be looking through hers ; and then she 
read annoyance and displeasure, irritation and vexation — • 
anything and everything except love. That stern, cold 
glance pierced her heart; she could not bear IV. She rose 
from her seat and left them alone ; she would rather have 
died than have encountered such another glance. 

How she lived through the hours of that day she did 
not know ; her heart was heavy as lead ; the sunshine and 
the brightness of everything around distracted her; she 
wept until it seemed to her that the very fountain of her 
tears were dry. 

She must see him, she must speak to him, whether he 
were displeased or not ; she could not bear it. It seemed 
to her that long weeks had passed since that one interview, 
in which he had not been altogether unkind to her. She 
must speak to him, hear him utter her name, even should 
it be in accents of anger. But where and how should she 
manage it? She heard him tell the countess that he should 
not be home probably for dinner, as he was riding over to 
Ashdale Lodge, and should most likely return home about 
nine. She at once resolved to wait for him by the gate 
that led to the high-road, which he must pass on his 
return. No matter what happened afterward, whether the 
countess were angry or not, she must see him or she must 
die ; she could bear this silence and distance no longer. 
Better that he should speak in anger than never speak at 
all ; better that he should kill her than leave her to die by 
this most slow and cruel torture. 

It seemed to the unhappy young wife that fate itself had 
intervened to help her ; for the countess shut herself up in 


A YOUNG LADY'S HINT. 


303 


her boudoir with Lady Ethel and Lady Gertrude, after 
saying that she should not require Miss Derwent’s services 
again that evening. Then Ailie was free. She drew her 
breath with a long, deep sob. Free ! Oh, Heaven, what a 
parody the word seemed to her ! She went to her room, 
and put on a hat and cloak. It came natural to her to 
dress herself picturesquely, even now in her sorrow and 
misery. The cloak was worn as only an artist could wear 
it, and the dark hat was like a dark crown on the golden 
head. She went quietly out of the house, though she was 
quite indifferent as to whether anyone saw her or not; 
the evening was her own, and she could do as she liked 
with it. 

• She walked quickly across the pleasure-grounds, through 
the park, to the outer gate that led to the highway. A 
great cluster of elm trees crowned the hill just there, and 
Ailie sat down under their shade to wait for the coming of 
her husband. 

The sun was setting in the western sky; the hill-tops 
and the boughs of the trees were all crimson ; the birds 
were singing their vesper hymns; the dew was falling, 
anci the sweet night wind whispered among the sleeping 
flowers. It was so calnj, so peaceful, so still ; the rest- 
less, passionate heart grew calm ; the beating pulse, the 
tired nerves, all grew quiet ; the fever-flush faded from her 
face. How could human love, human passion, torture a 
human soul while the grand, serene peace of Heaven lay 
around? 

“So calm, so still ; it is the smile of God,” she said to 
herself. 

The lovely, peaceful calm had its influence over her; 
the fever of passion, the fever of unrest passed away ; the 
fever of jealousy and pain died; she only remembered 


304 


THE HUSBAND'S PROMISE. 


that she loved him, and that he u’as the gallant young 
husband who had married her to keep her fair name with- 
out a cloud. 

She waited there until the last gleam of crimsdn had 
died in the west; thi sweet, solemn calm deepened, the 
lovely hush of night lay over the land, the stars began to 
glimmer in the skies; she listened for the sound of the 
horse’s gallop ; she laid her face on the cool, sweet, dewy 
grass. Even Mother Earth, so hard and cold, was less 
cold, less hard than the husband who had married her for 
honor’s sake without love. 

Then she heard the gallop of a horse far away on the 
high-road; he was coming, he whose smile made her 
heaven. She stood up, trembling with emotion, under the 
starlight ; she saw him, and she went down to the gate. 

“ Lord Carsdale,” she said, as he came near. 

He did not hear, and she repeated the name. 

“Lord Carsdale !” 

Then he heard, and looked more vexed than pleased 
when his eyes fell on the beautiful face of his young wife. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

THE husband’s PROMISE. 

Looking down. Lord Carsdale saw a pale, beautiful face, 
with a wistful look in the sweet eyes. He saw little white 
hands clasped in almost fervent entreaty. 

“Lord Carsdale,” said the gentle voice, “I want to 
speak to you.” 


THE HUSBAND^ S PROMISE, 



305 ^ 

Then he recognized his wife, Ailie; and, though his 
first quick impulse was one of impatience, in a moment 
he had taken off his hat, dismounted, < and stood bare-, 
headed by her side. 

“You want to speak to me.?” ne -repeated. “You 
almost startled me, Aili«, standing -there in the dusk of 
the evening. Tell me, what do you wish to say?” 

He fastened the reins of the horse round a tall tree. 

. “I will leave Black Charlie to enjoy ‘some ^of this fine 
grass,” he said. “And now, Ailie, to buaness. .You. 
want me — what is it?” , ■ ' ■ 

He walked on in silence for some minutes by hbr side ; 
then she raised her face to his. ^ . * . . • 

“ I want to tdl you,”*she said, “ thal you must speak a . 
kind word to me. I cannot bear this any longer;- I shall 
go mad unless you speak kindly to m.e, There is always 
auloud on your face when you look at' me.’ Have you. 
not ©ne word for me .?” 

He looked at her iii astonishment ; he did not even un- 
derstand the terrible storm of love and despair going on in- 
her heart. * . • ' . . ' * 

“•I do. not know what you mean, Ahie,” he replied. • 
“I have not been unkind to you; I do not know that I 
have ever looked or. felt iih patient at all. . Of coiyse,' it is ‘ 
an unpleasant state of things, but I haye not coinpjained. ” 
“Once before,” she said,* “I a.sked you for bread and 
you gave me a. stone; now 1 have. watched you — how 
kindly you smile and look at others ; how kind you are- to 
every one — ho\y gentle ; yet you treat me as though I were • 
the most indifferent stranger.” 

“My dear Ailie; that .is hardly my fault; you have 
placed yourself in a situation that has no parallel. To 
betray my secret now, after guarding it 50 long, would be 


3o6 


THE HUSBAND^ S PROMISE. 


simply to ruin myself and to break the hearts of those 
dearest to me. I cannot do it; and, Ailie, in keeping 
that secret, 1 am doing you no wrong. ” 

“No wrong!" she repeated, mournfully. “Perhaps 
not, as men view such things; a woman would tell you 
better. No wrong ! yet my heart aches always with a pain 
that I cannot describe, that I could not tell.“ I only know 
that I hunger and thirst for one kind word from you, and 
you never give it to me." 

“But, Ailie, I must be prudent; I have done all that I 
can do ; I see, now that I am older, our marriage was a 
terrible mistake, as all marriages without love are; but I 
have done my best under the circumstances. It is you, 
Ailie, who, by coming here, have so complicated matters. 
You might have been happy enough as Mrs. Nelson; you 
could have lived in all comfort and sespectability." 

She looked up at him with a sudden fire of passion 
gleaming in her face. 

“ Do you know that I could quote Tennyson’s words to 
you.?" she said. “ ‘Comfort, scorned of devils,’ only that I 
fear they would shock you. I do not want comfort, or 
money, or anything else, but — a little love from you.” 

“Love from me !’’ he repeated. 

“Yes, love from you, Lord Carsdale. I would rather 
suffer any pain, any privation; I would rather be miser- 
able, and have at times one kind word from you, than be 
the happiest, the most brilliant of women, without these 
kind words.” 

“But, Ailie, there never was any question of love,” he 
said. 

“I love you; and, Lord Carsdale, there should be a 
question of love. Do you think that I am a marble 
statue.? Do you think that I have a heart of stone.? Is it 


THE HUSBAND'S PROMISE, 


307 


ice that fills my veins? Am I human, that you think I 
can see you, hear you, live near you, love you, and not 
long for one word of love m return ?” 

“I have not thought about it,” he said. “As I tell 
you, it has never seemed to me a matter of love.” 

She laid her hand on his. 

“ Do try to care a little for me,” she said. V I am your 
w'ife — I bear your name — I love you — give me a thought 
sometimes. ” 

She bent down and kissed the hand she held out in her 
own. He started at the touch of those warm, trembling 
lips. 

“I am only young,” she said, “and I cannot help 
loving you. I do not think that in all the world there is 
any one like you — I have seen no one.” 

He smiled at the unconscious flattery of her words. 

“I cannot help loving you,” she repeated. “When 
you enter a room, I always say to myself there is no one 
here like him — and yet — he is mine — I am his wife — 
though he talks and laughs with others, I am his wife.” 

“ Poor child !” he said, gently. 

“And then — you will laugh at me perhaps, but I can- 
not help it — then the careless words people say stab me to 
the heart.” 

“ What words are those, Ailie?” he asked. 

Even in the faint light of the stars he saw the hot flush 
that covered her face. She paused for a few moments, 
during which he swept away with his hand some fallen 
leaves from the green bank and made a seat for her. 

“You will be tired,” he said, gently. “Sit down and 
tell me what words slab you to the heart, Ailie.” 

There was something of constraint in the quiet tone of 
his voice ; evidently he had an idea of what it was. 


3o8 


f9fE HUSBAND'S PROMISE. 


^ ^‘Lady Ethel is very beautiful/^ said Ailie. “She is so 
lovely and ^o graceful that I cannot wonder at any one 
loving her — and people say — Lady Waldrove says, that the 
dearest wish of her heart is to see you marry Lady Ethel.” 

“I cannot help what people say,” he replied, coldly. 

Dear Heaven ! what anguish her simple words caused 
him — that was the only desire of his hearV, too, but it 
could never be gratified. 

“Then,” continued Ailie, “when people see you to- 
gether they look at each other and smile. ” 

“ I cannot help that,” he said again. 

“No, perhaps not, exactly. But, Lord Carsdale — oh, 
do believe me — I am not jealous. The moon might just 
as well be jealous of the sun as I of Lady Ethel. Who 
am I, that I should be jealous of her.? But it pains me, 
it hurts me, for I begin to feel quite sure that you will 
never learn to care for me while she is near. ” 

He made no answer — it ^3.s so terribly true. He could 
find no reply for her. He pulled the sweet-smelling grass 
up by the roots and flung it away, he played with the fallen 
leaves, he looked up at the shining stars, but he could find 
no answer for her. 

“There are times,” continued Ailie, “when she looks 
so beautiful that I do not wonder at anything — times when 
you look at her, and I see all your soul shining in your 
eyes. I wonder if you would have married her had you 
never met with me.?” 

“It is quite useless to speculate on such a subject,” he 
replied. “ I did meet you, and married you.” 

“Do tell me, Lord Carsdale,” she said. “If you do 
not love me, surely you trust me. Do tell me — would it 
have been so?” 


THE HUSBAND'S PROMISE. 


309 

“Why do you persist in asking me? It can do you no 
good to know, '' he said. 

“That is almost answer sufficient,” she said, sadly. 
“You would have married her, Lord Carsdale, had ypu 
never met me.” 

“Yes, I should have done so, Ailie,” he replied; and 
the words cost him an effort, “^till, do not make any 
mistake. If my soul, as you say, shines in my eyes when 
I look at her, I am sorry for it, and will keep better guard 
over myself. I am a man of honor. I do not make love 
to her, Ailie, nor do I deceive her in any way. I have the 
highest esteem for her.” 

Ailie raised her face to the shining stars. 

“Do you know,” she said, “what I wish? I wish that 
I could die out here, by your side, and free you, that you 
might be happy.” 

“Nay, I do not wish that, Ailie. I would not purchase 
my happiness at the price of your life. Why should I? 
But there is one way open for us; I do not propose it 
seriously — I have not thought of it; but there is one ^’ay 
open for us, if ever we have recourse to anything of the 
kind. I should neither propose nor advocate it; still, 
there lies that one path before us — a proper legal separa- 
tion. ” 

The words pierced her heart; the beautiful face, with its 
tragical expression of love, grew white as death and cold 
as stone. The night wind swept around them, the stars 
shone brightly over their heads, the peace of Heaven 
brooded over the fair castle, but in the loving heart of that 
gentle girl a sword had been plunged. Even the silence 
touched him at last. 

“ I do not, of course, mean that such a thing will ever 
be; indeed, I do not know that it can be. T merely say it 


310 


THE HUSBAND* S PROMISE, 


to show you that there is an easier alternative than death, 
if we are driven to strong measures. ” 

She bowed her head again, and again she touched his 
hand with her lips. 

You are my husband,” she said, ‘‘my lord and mas- 
ter — the arbiter of my fate. I would die to serve you ; 
death would come from your hands sweeter than life from 
another; but that which you hint — it would be worse than 
death. While I live no other womans heart shall be 
your home. Oh, my love, be pitiful to me ! Such words 
kill me!” 

All her self-command, her pride, her sell-control failed. 
She wept bitter, passionate tears. 

“My love,” she sobbed, “be kinder to me; let me die, 
but do not offer me life without you. I cannot help it 
that I love you. I am your wife, and it seems right that I 
should love you, no matter why you married me, or how. 
See, I am not exacting. I do not ask much. Only a 
kind word sometimes to keep me from starvation and 
despair. You will not refuse me that.? Do not look un- 
kindly at me. Do not grow impatient. And oh, my 
love ! my love ! do not look so kindly in another woman’s 
face when I am near. I can bear anything but that.” 

The passion of her words touched him a little. She 
had exhausted herself by the power of passion and unrest ; 
now she leaned back against the old gnarled trunk of the 
tree and closed her eyes. He looked at the beautiful face, 
so fair, so pure. He said to himself that she was more 
beautiful even than Lady Ethel, but in such a different way. 
And then there came to him a half kind of wish that he 
had learned to love her — that he had never seen the lovely, 
brilliant woman who had taken possession of his whole 
heart, even against his will. He would almost have been 


DRESSING A RIVAL. 



■ 7 


311 


pleased to have taken the slight figure in his arms— to 
have said : 

“Look up, my gentle, loving wife; I will learn to care 
for you.” 

He knew the words would be false, so he did not utter 
them. Still he was a gentleman ; he could not see a 
woman suffer without trying to console her. 

“Ailie,” he said, “I will be more careful, I will never 
willingly give you pain. I have never been unkind to 
you, but for the future I will be more kind. Do you hear 
me,. Ailie?” 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

DRESSING A RIVAL. 

“ Do you hear me, Ailie?” he repeated, for she had made 
him no answer. 

Then she raised her head and spoke with irresistible 
sweetness and dignity. 

“Yes, I hear you, and I thank you. You are very 
good to me — I have no right to complain. You will 
smile sometimes when your look meets mine. And some- 
times, when I meet you unseen by others, you will give 
me a kind word ?” 

“Yes, I promise,” he said. 

It was hardly in human nature to see a beautiful, loving 
woman plead for a little kindness without giving it. 

“I will be content,” she said, but the voice in which 
she spoke was surely the saddest voice ever heard. 

Then he rose. 





3 


DRESSING A RIVAL. 


*‘We must go home, Ailie; it is growing late. I can- 
not leave you to walk through the park alone ; I will go 
with you.” 

“But your horse,” she said. “Will you not be afraid to 
leave Black Charlie?” 

“No. I would rather leave my horse^^than leave you, 
Ailie,” he replied, laughingly, “Why, how you tremble, 
poor child ; how you suffer ! Now, draw your cloak round 
you — see, it is quite damp with dew ! How much you 
have wished for this one interview with me ; it seems to be 
our fate to see each other by starlight.” 

He saw that her hands trembled so she could not fasten 
the clasp of her cloak. He did it for her. 

“Now, Ailie, let us hasten home,” he said. “Take 
my arm, for the ground is very unequal, and you may 
stumble.” 

But Ailie caught his hand and clung to that ; he would 
not hurt her mind by withdrawing it, so they walked 
through the sweet, dewy moonlight home. He could not 
utter a word of warning when he stopped to bid her good- 
night. She had almost forgotten her sorrow and despair, 
her unhappy love, in the delight of that moonlight walk 
with him ; and when they stopped before the little side- 
door, the face so raised to his wore such an expression of 
passionate happiness, he could not find it in his heart to 
shadow it again. 

“Good-night, Ailie,” he said, kindly. “Take this 
cloak off at once; it is quite damp. Good-night!” 

Still, with the same look of breathless, rapturous hap- 
piness on her sweet face, she looked up at him with the 
guileless innocence of a child. 

“You did not bid me good-by before you went to 
India,” she said; “you would have kissed me then, be- 


DRESSING A RIVAL. 


313 

cause you were going away for years. You owe me that 
one kiss; will you give it to me now.?” 

His face flushed; hers, in the moonlight, shone pure 
and pale as a star. He would rather not have done it, but 
the sweet, wistful eyes were fixed on his. Well, if one kiss 
could make her happy — it was not much — it would be 
absurd to refuse it ; and, after all, she was his wife. He 
bent down and kissed her. She looked at him again with 
a sweet, grave dignity, that touched him very much. 

“Do not think that I am profane,” she said; “but that 
seems to me almost a sacrament. Do you think there is 
anything in the wide world more beautiful and more en- 
nobling than the kiss of the man you love.?” 

He laughed uneasily. 

“You are an enthusiast, Ailie; good-night.” 

“ Good-night,” she replied. 

She stopped for one moment to watch him as he 
hastened back to Black Charlie. 

“The time shall come,” she said, “God helping me, 
when you shall give me a kiss with your heart in it.” 

While Lord Carsdale, as he hastened back to Black 
Charlie, said to himself : 

“This must not happen again. I did not like to make 
her miserable by saying so, but it must be the last time 
that she follows me. I shall have to leave home through it.” 

Yet, though he was vexed and annoyed, he could not 
help feeling half flattered by her persistent, devoted love. 

“I wish she did not care so much about me,” he 
thought. “ I shall never care for her.” 

So he said, and so he thought ; but as he rode home 
through the sweet, dewy twilight, he thought, more than 
once, of the passionate loveliness of that fair face, of the 
music of the sad voice. He thought of her after that night. 


DRESSING A RIVAL. 


314 

There is something very pleasant in being loved, even 
though we do not love in return. 

Lady Waldrove sent for him as soon as he re-entered 
the house. 

Come and amuse us, Vivian,” she said. “ Your father 
and all the gentlemen have gone to the efection dinner — 
we are quite alone, and I am quite afraid that we are rather 
tired of each other — come and amuse us.” 

He took his usual seat by his mother’s side. Floss was 
almost delirious with joy, Castor and Pollux were most 
demonstrative in their welcome ; Lady Gertrude had pleas- 
’ant smiles and pleasant words for him ; Lady Ethel, in her 
evening dress of amber and white, looked bewitchingly 
beautiful ; he could not have been more cordially wel- 
comed. He told them the incidents of the day, whom he 
had seen at Ashdale Park ; then, suddenly, he seemed to 
lose himself, and he heard his mother’s voice, saying : 

“ How distrait you are, Viyian. Do you not hear Lady 
Ethel speaking to you .? What are you thinking of?” 

What, indeed ! He was startled to find that just then 
his thoughts had strayed back to that evening’s interview — 
that he was once more out in the starlight, under the shade 
of the elm trees — a beautiful, pale, passionate face looking 
into his, a sweet voice pleading to him for a little love, a 
little kindness ! He was positively surprised to find that 
he had forgotten everything around him, thinking only of 
his wife. He was startled and surprised. 

That same evening, as fortune would have it, Ailie, 
after she entered the house, went to the library in search 
of a book, and there what should she find but the story of 
‘‘Patient Griselda,” surely one of the most beautiful poems 
in our annals — Patient Griselda, who bore every kind of 
indignity, yet never complained — who thought the world 


DRESSING A RIVAL. 


315 


well lost if she could only win her husband’s love — who 
bore the loss of everything, friends, fair fame, children, 
home, all that a woman’s heart holds most dear — yet never 
once murmured against the will of her sovereign lord and 
master ! — Patient Griselda, whose name has been handed 
down from all posterity as the pattern of most loving and 
devoted of wives. ^ 

“That was love,” thought Ailie, with a long sigh ; “that 
was love indeed ! And Griselda won her husband’s love at 
last; and how dearly he must have loyed her, after all that 
she had suffered !” 

What woman had once done woman could do again — 
the patience and perseverance that had triumphed once 
should triumph again — that which Patient Griselda had 
done, she would do. The dignity of a noble purpose 
came to her, and made her beautiful womanhood more 
noble still. She could not have chosen a more noble pur- 
pose than that of winning her husband’s love. The light 
of earnest enthusiasm came into her face — her eyes shone 
with clear, holy light. 

“ I will live for it, and die for it,” she said ; “ I will have 
no other purpose in life than this one of winning my hus- 
band’s love. I will be patient, even as Griselda was ; I 
will endure all things — ^jealousy, pain, calumny, neglect, 
everything and anything, with this one hope in view of 
making him love me in the end.^J^ 

It seemed to her that from this moment a high and holy 
mission was hers, that her life from this time was conse- 
crated to a good and noble purpose. She lay down to 
sleep that night happier than she had been for months; to 
her innocent heart came innocent dreams of the time when 
he should give her a “kiss with his whole heart in it;” to 
her innocent lips rose prayers simple as the prayers of ^ 


3i6 


DRESSING A RIVAL. 


child that God would give to her her husband’s love ; her 
last thought that evening was of the one bright, beautiful 
moment when she had stood looking up into her hus- 
band'J face and did not read displeasure there. 

A grand event was coming off at Roseneath ; the count- 
ess had decided on giving a ball, to which^she intended to 
invite the elite of the county. 

“It was only due to Lady Ethel,” the countess said, 
“that they should have some festivities.” 

Lord Carsdale laughed at the bare mention of it. 

“I thought you would not be happy long without 
something of the kind, mother. A ball — let it be by all 
means. ” 

So it was arranged ; and again, as five years before, an 
idea seemed to have entered Lady Waldrove’s mind, that, 
in all probability, a ball would bring matters to a crisis, 
and Lord Carsdale would, in all probability, make the 
beautiful heiress an offer that night. Why she should 
think so — what reason she had for the idea was not even 
known to herself. The event caused some little commo- 
tion even in that magnificent mansion where everything 
was in such exquisite order. 

Ailie had some sharp struggles with herself before she 
could bring herself to discuss with Lady Ethel what toilet 
would suit her best, for Lady Ethel had made a little plot 
of her own. It was just five years since she had stood with 
him on the shore of that sweet southern sea, and he had 
toldi^her he should never see the sea without thinking of 
her,' and that he called her — his dream by the sea. On the 
ball night she would remind him of it, and she would ask 
him whether he liked her more or less than he did then. 
She said to herself that she would throw the whole cast of 
her life on this one night. She would speak to him of the 


A IVIFE^S STRANGE POSITION 


317 


past, and, if he maintained the same reserve, she would 
know then that some reason, some tangible difficulty, 
stood between them. “I will not woo him by so much 
as a word,” said the beautiful woman to herself, ‘*^but I 
will try if he cares for me ; at present I am puzzled, and 
cannot understand it” 

She was anxious about her dress, not that her beauty 
depended on it in the least, but she liked to look artistic. 

Ailie rebelled at first when Lady Ethel came to consult 
her. Why should she help this woman, whom she knew 
now to be her rival — why should she help her to win her 
husbands love? 

Then she remembered Patient Griselda, and her resolve. 
“I shall conquer yet by force of patience,” she said. 

She was very gentle and very kind. She suggested and 
advised, until between them the loveliest costume of white 
lace and red roses had been invented. Lady Ethel was 
charmed, and Ailie had her reward ; for one morning 
Lady Ethel, laughingly, gave Lord Carsdale a description 
of her dress, adding : 

“ I have to thank Miss Derwent for it. I should never 
have thought of anything one-half so pretty myself.” 

Then her husband turned to her with a kindly smile. 
Ailie said to herself that she was more than repaid. 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

A wife's strange position. 

Lady Ethel Pierpont looked beautiful enough on the 
evening of the ball to have driven any man to desperation. 


318 


A WIFE'S STRANGE POSITION. 


People said she had never looked more lovely; her cos- 
tume was of a high order of art — it was almost impossible 
to tell where the roses began and the lace ended. Con- 
sci^iRhat she was looking her best, Lady Ethel felt quite 
equal to the task she had set herself of making Lord Cars- 
dale care more for her than ever. 

A ball at Roseneath was always a brilliant success, 
the rooms were so superbly large and lofty. What would 
have been a crowd in other places was only a pleasant 
number at Roseneath ; and this ball, thanks to Lady Wal- 
drove’s unusual activity, promised to be one of the best 
given there. The countess had invited Ailie, in a kind of 
half-indifferent fashion that the girl most bitterly resented ; 
but she wished to see how her husband and Lady Ethel 
would act when they were together — whether he would 
talk to her again, with his soul shining in his eyes, or not. 
The first words she overheard were not very promising. 
Lord Carsdale was escorting the beautiful heiress to the 
ball-room ; as they went through the long corridor, Ailie 
heard Lady Ethel say : 

“I have remembered what you said the other evening, 
and I have saved all the best waltzes for you. ” 

‘‘You have been kinder to me than I deserve,” said 
Lord Carsdale. “Waltzing with you is a pleasure that I 
remember of old as one of the greatest of pleasures.” 

“You have the fashion of speaking of yourself as 
though you were some ancient patriarch, Lord Carsdale,” 
said Lady Ethel. “Do you know that, looking back 
to the very first day of our acquaintance, it does not 
extend over six years?” 

‘ ‘ I have not reckoned the time in which I have known 
you by the average months and weeks,” he replied; 


A IVIFE^S STRANGE POSITION. 


319 

*‘some of the days have seemed a century long, others 
have passed in a dream. ” 

And Ailie, who heard the words as the speaker passed 
slowly by, said to herself that she would have givlS^er 
life for such words from him. 

She saw them in the ball-room, though she was not near 
them ; and she owned to herself that she had never seen 
two people so perfectly well suited to each other — both so 
graceful, so handsome. She heard many whispers of ad- 
miration as they danced together. 

‘ ‘ I call such dancing as that a poem, ” Captain Moore 
said to her. "I can understand now why people call it 
one of the arts — that is, the very perfection of movement. ” 

And Ailie knew that it was true. 

Her husband did go near her ; he seemed to remember 
suddenly what she had said about one kind word from him 
making her happy. She was standing by Lady Gertrude’s 
side, having just taken a message from that lady tOi^jne of 
the maids. Lord Carsdale spoke to his sister first, then he 
turned to Ailie. 

“Do you like dancing, Miss Derwent?" he asked ; and 
it was not until he saw the crimson flush that burned her 
face that he remembered what a very awkward question he 
had asked. 

“ No," she replied, “ I do not like it." 

And Lady Gertrude looked up in supercilious wonder. 

“Not like dancing! That is a strangely frank confes- 
sion. I thought all young girls liked dancing.” 

“ I am an exception, then," said Ailie. 

But she did not look at her husband as she spoke ; she 
knew well that he understood the reason why. 

Then he spoke to her again. 

“ In that case," he said, “you will hardly enjoy a ball." 


320 


A WIFE^S STRANGE POSITION. 


“I like to see people all so beautiful and so happy,*' 
said Ailie, simply. 

And the words seemed to touch Lord Carsdale. But 
Lac^Jpertrude had already looked in wonder that he 
shomd think it necessary to waste civilities on her mother’s 
companion. He knew that to draw down* remark upon 
Ailie would be, of all things, the most cruel and the most 
fatal. 

He left them ; but the thought that he had spoken 
kindly to her stirred his young wife’s heart with a keen 
sense of pleasure. 

I do not hold him guiltless; I do not describe him as a 
hero, or a man without reproach ; but his strange position 
must plead his excuse. In the days of his youthful 
imprudence he had, from a swift, sudden impulse of 
honor, married this girl ; he had married her to shield her 
from blame, and it was a most Quixotic action ; but when 
he came to reflect upon it more coolly, the consequences 
of that marriage seemed to him more than he could bear. 
He could not endure to inflict the pain of it on his 
parents; he did not like the loss of social position. 
In the highest sense of the word he was not a hero, but a 
man who shrank from the consequences of an imprudent 
action. He had not yet hardly looked the difiiculty in 
the face, or asked himself how it must end. 

So Ailie stood watching lovely Lady Ethel as she floated 
away to the sound of the sweet, sad music — a radiant 
vision of white lace and roses. The beautiful heiress was 
unutterably happy, and her face was something to remem- 
ber. Then Ailie lost sight of them ; half an hour after- 
ward one of the footmen came to her, and said that Lady 
Ethel Pierpont would be very glad to see her in the little 
ante-room. 


A mFE^S STRANGE POSITION. 


321 


Ailie knew the room well ; it was one leading from the 
large drawing-room. Wondering what could be Lady 
Ethel’s object in sending for her, she went. There, in the 
little room, which shone, and gleamed, and glistened like 
a huge jewel, she saw Lady Ethel and Lord CarsSale. 
Lady Ethel came to her with a bright, persuasive smile. 

“Miss Derwent,*’ she said, “you have been so good- 
natured that I am not afraid to take a liberty with you. 
See this spray of roses — it has become unfastened in the 
dancing, and I am afraid to ask any one to fasten it who 
does not understand it. Would, you be so kind as to help 
me?” 

“I will do it with pleasure,” said Ailie; but as she 
spoke she did not look once toward her husband. She 
felt, rather than saw, that he stood watching her. She 
raised the spray of roses in her hand. “I shall want” 
a needle. Lady Ethel,” she said, quietly ; “I will not keep 
you long.” 

She hurried away. When she returned they were talk- 
ing so earnestly that she felt some little embarrassment at 
interrupting them. Lady Ethel turned to her with another 
kindly smile. 

“How good you are !” she said. 

Then Ailie began her work, and for a few minutes there 
was silence. 

It was a strange scene — the brilliant little room that with 
mirrors, lusters, and girandoles was like one shining gem ; 
the tall, handsome man, with his bronzed face and soldier- 
like bearing ; the beautiful woman, with the rich clouds of 
white lace and the fire of scarlet roses ; the lovely, pale girl 
in plain gray dress, whose only ornament was her wealth of 
golden hair — a strange scene, and, to one who could have 
understood its tragic realities, of no little meaning. 


322 


A IV/FE'S STFANGE POSITION. 


The long spray of roses had become quite unfastened, 
and, to make it secure, Ailie had to begin at the bottom 
of the dress. To do that she had to kneel down, and it 
was then that Lord Carsdale looked so strangely at her. 
The sight touched him more than he had ever been 
touched in his life before — her gentle, graioeful humility, 
her kindly good-nature, her wonderful self-control ; and, 
after all, she was his lawful wife, and she knew it. It was 
Lady Carsdale kneeling there with the humility of a child, 
helping her rival, the woman whom she half feared, half 
dreaded that her husband loved. How proudly and scorn- 
fully some girls would have refused to render that kindly 
office — how haughtily they would have said it was the work 
of a lady’s maid ; but she had not hesitated one moment. 
He looked at the beautiful, pure face, so intent and 
earnest ; he looked at the golden head bent in such sweet 
humility; he looked at the graceful figure, the white 
hands. Ailie had never been so near her husband’s heart 
as she was at that moment. It struck him with a sudden 
keen sense of shame that his wife should be kneeling there 
in gentle attendance upon her rival. His face flushed 
hotly. He went to the other end of the room ; then he 
returned. He could not endure it. After all she was his 
wife. Lady Carsdale, although the world did not know it. 

He stopped quite abruptly before her, and he spoke so 
abruptly that both ladies looked quickly at him. 

“You will tire yourself. Miss Derwent,” he said, 
“kneeling there. Let me give you a chair.” 

Lady Ethel detected the strange tone in his voice ; Ailie 
thought only of the kindness which prompted the words, 
and the face that she raised to his was beautiful in its pas- 
sionate love. 

“ I could not fasten these flowers if I were sitting, Lord 


A WIFE^S STRANGE POSITION. 


323 

Carsdale,” she replied, simply; *‘but indeed it does not 
fatigue me. I am quite pleased to do it. 

“Can I do nothing to help?” he asked, impatiently; 
and Lady Ethel believed that his impatience was caused by 
his desire to take her back into the ball-room. Ailie 
thought the same. 

“ 1 will not be long,” she said. “ I will be as quick as 
possible. ” 

Lord Carsdale had seen his young wife in attendance on 
his mother, and it had not caused him the least feeling of 
annoyance, but his sense of honor and justice was touched 
now. 

“This is the last leaf,” said Ailie, with a smile; “and, 
Lady Ethel, I think this arrangement even prettier than the 
other.” 

They both felt some little surprise at suddenly seeing 
Lord Carsdale quit the room. He returned in a few min- 
utes, bringing with him an ice-cream. 

“Pray take this, Miss Derwent,” he said; “you mud 
be tired.” 

Ailie was too much surprised even to answer; then the 
tender heart beat high with joy, and the sweet eyes grew 
dim with a rush of happy tears. 

“Now, Lady Ethel,” he said, “we shall be in time for 
our waltz yet. ” 

The beautiful heiress murmured some words of thanks 
to Ailie ; but the girl did not hear her. She was lost in a 
maze of happy thoughts; it seemed so wonderful to 
her that her husband should have been so solicitous for 
her — that he should have cared whether she was tired 
or not — that he should have troubled himself to bring her 
refreshments ; it was so wonderful she could not forget it. 
She stood there with a happy brooding smile on her face ; 


3^4 


A WIFE^S HOPE. 


the ice-cream seemed to her far too precious even to 
be eaten, while Lady Ethel walked away, saying to Lord 
Carsdale, with a gentle laugh : 

can never quite understand whether you like Miss 
Derwent or not, you speak to her in such a tone of sup- 
pressed irritation always.” -- 

“Do I? I do not intend it,” he replied, carelessly; 
but Lady Ethel’s answer was : 

“Yes; your manner is not the same with her as with 
other people,” which was not quite a pleasant speech for 
him to hear. 


CHAPTER XLVIIL 
A wife’s hope. 

If a beautiful woman sets to work to win a man’s heart 
it is not often that she fails. Lady Ethel had made several 
mistakes that evening ; for one thing, she had mistaken his 
impatience at seeing Ailie watching for her for a desire on 
his part to be with her. She said to herself that he must 
love her, that it was useless to imagine anything else ; he 
must love her, and perhaps with some little encourage- 
ment, some few kind words from her, he would tell her so. 

If he had not liked her he would have married before 
this, she thought. His mother wanted him to marry ; the 
earl openly declared that the one great wish oi ms ii'ie was 
to see his son married ; so that there was no reason, no ob- 
stacle, nothing to prevent it. Lady Ethel made herself 
very charming to him, and she was always irresistible ; the 


A IVIFE^S hope: 


325 

fact that she made herself more attractive, made it almost 
impossible for Lord Carsdale to escape his fate. 

He waltzed with her for the third time, owning to him- 
self that after all it was a species of delirium which would 
soon be over. 

*‘I am tired,” she said, looking up at him with a half- 
wistful glance. “ I have hardly stopped dancing since the 
ball began ; I am tired. Lord Carsdale. ” 

Without a word he took her through the brilliantly- 
lighted rooms, through the long, bright corridors, until 
they reached the picture-gallery ; it was well lighted and 
fragrant with the breath of choice flowers. 

“ It is cool and pleasant here,” he said ; ‘‘rest awhile.” 

He placed her on one of the most comfortable loung- 
ing chairs near the large western windows, from whence 
she could see the lovely silver moonlight as it lay on tl^e 
flowers. She held a fan in her hand, with a jeweled handle, 
one made of the white plumage of a beautiful and rare 
tropical bird. He took it from her hand and examined it, 
he asked her some trifling questions about it, and it seemed 
to her that he was ill at ease. 

There was no one else in the gallery, although it was 
often used on ball nights as a promenade. From the dis- 
tance came the soft, sweet music, that, even when most 
gay, has in it a current of sadness. The marble statues 
gleamed from the background of crimson, the gorgeous 
pictures on the wall, the jardiniereSy with their costly flow- 
ers, all made up a beautiful scene. The magic of the 
hour emboldened her. She raised her head, and, looking 
with sweet shyness at him, she said : 

“Do you remember the last time we danced together 
before you left England, Lord Carsdale ?” 

She had asked the question suddenly. She saw his face 


A WIFE^S HOPE. 


326 

flush hotly, and a quiver of pain pass over it. Her heart 
beat as she saw it. 

*‘He loves me,” she said. ‘‘He is not indifTerent to 
me, or he would not look so.” 

“Yes, I remember it. Lady Ethel,” he replied, in a low 
voice. 

“Do you remember that we walked down to the sea? 
We had a strange desire to say good-by there. Do you re- 
member how the stars shone and the waves murmured on 
the shore ?” 

“It is not likely that I should forget. Lady Ethel,” he 
replied. 

“Nor have I forgotten,” she continued ; “you said you 
should think of me every time you saw the sea. Have you 
done so?” 

“Yes, I have,” he replied, in a low, pained voice. 

“You called me your dream by the sea. I should so 
much like to ask you a question. Lord Carsdale.” 

“Ask me anything you will. Lady Ethel,” he replied. 

She was silent for a moment ; her beautiful face drooped ; 
all the sweet, noble impulse of her womanhood rose in re- 
bellion against the question she was going to ask — but, she 
must know. She had waited for five long years in suspense 
— loving him, and him alone — living for him, and him 
alone. Her face flushed, and he saw her lips trembled. 

‘ ‘ What is the question, Lady Ethel ?” he asked. ‘ ‘ Surely 
you can have no fear over anything that you wish to say to 
me. We are old fri.ends, tried friends, true friends.” 

“I have no fear,” she said, proudly. “I want to ask 
you this question. You remember all that you said to me 
on that evening ? I — I should like to ask you if you care 
less for me now than you did then?” She gained courage 


A IVIFE^S HOPE. 


327 

as she went on. “ Do you like me more or less than you 
did then?” 

There was a moment of terrible silence, during which it 
seemed to her she could hear the beating of her own heart. 
Then in a low voice, he answered : 

“ For Heaven’s sake do not ask me such a question ! I 
cannot answer it.” 

“Why?” she asked, looking at him with clear, proud 
eves. 

“I cannot, and it tortures me. Perhaps, at some time 
later on,- but not now — not now.” 

There was silence again for some minutes, during which 
she beat back her emotion with a strong hand. She said to 
herself that everything in life was at stake for her now. 

“ I have rested,” she said, in a calm voice, in which he 
detected no trace of agitation. “Shall we go back again? 
They are playing the ‘Blue Danube,’ and it is my favorite 
waltz ; we shall be in time for it.” 

He tried to imitate her self-command, her self-posses- 
sion, but it was impossible ; his face in those few minutes 
seemed to have grown white and haggard. 

“ Lady Ethel,” he said, “will you tell me why, during 
these five years, you have not married? Will you tell me?” 

“No,” she replied, “that is my secret; it concerns no 
one. Let us go; the ‘Blue Danube’ is calling us.” 

But it is none the less true that though she looked the 
same as usual, though she talked to him and walked with 
an air of unconcern by his side, yet she never saw where 
she was going, or heard one of his replies — there was a 
mist before her eyes, a rush as of many waters in her ears, 
but she never betrayed herself by even one word or look. 

“You will not tell me. Lady Ethel?” he said, as they 
entered the ball-room. 


328 


A WIFE'S HOPE. 


“ I make the same answer to you that you made to me, 
Lord Carsdale— I cannot. ” 

Then, looking at her, he understood it all better than if 
she had spoken. He read the secret of her love, of her 
waiting, of her silence ; he knew that he was the chosen 
love of her life ; and, strong man, brave soldier as he was, 
his lips turned white with pain. He unddfstood, and he 
felt himself now face to face with the great difficulty of his 
life. Yet, strange to say, it was the first time that he 
thought of Ailie without impatience. Something, that 
was neither irritation nor anger, stirred in his heart when 
he thought of her — when he remembered the fair face and 
the golden head bowed in such sweet humility. 

“ I have made a strange, sad mistake in my life,” he said 
to himself ; “ the time has come when I must settle some- 
thing or other.” 

It was almost a relief to him when Captain Moore 
claimed Lady Ethel and led her away; he longed to be 
alone, but there was no such luxury as solitude for the heir 
of Roseneath. No sooner did Lady Waldrove see that her 
son was disengaged than she led him to young ladies who 
had begun to consider themselves aggrieved because he 
had not danced with them. It was not until the greater 
part of the guests had disappeared that he found ten min- 
utes for himself; then he went away to the little quad- 
rangle, where orange-trees grew in great green vases. He 
sat down there with his favorite friend and confidante — a 
cigar. 

What was he to do ? He had bound himself for life, he 
had put love out of his power, and now he saw with the 
clearest certainty that Lady Ethel loved him — that she had 
wasted all these years in the hope, or rather expectation, 
that he would make her his wife. 


A WIFE^S HOPE. 


329 


What must he do ! It seemed to him that two courses 
lay open to him — either he must tell Lady Ethel the truth 
and avow his love for his wife, or he must seek a legal separa> 
tion from the girl who bore his name. Just as he reached 
this point in his thoughts, he heard a light footstep, and a 
gentle voice said : 

Lord Carsdale !” 

The next moment two soft hands had clasped his, and, 
looking down, he saw the fair young face of his wife. She 
knelt on the green sward by his side. 

“Do not be angry with me,” she said, in a sweet, low 
voice. “I will not stay one moment, but I could not rest 
until I had been to thank you for your kindness. ” 

Then with her warm, sweet lips she kissed the hand that 
she held in her own. 

“ What kindness,” he said, too startled to remember to 
what she alluded — “what kindness have I shown you, 
poor child ?” 

“A great deal,” she answered, raising her face, so beau- 
tiful in its passionate love, to his. “A great deal. Lord 
Carsdale. You interfered when you thought I was tired, 
and you brought me an ice-cream. Do you know that 
ice-cream seemed to me far loo precious to eat. I could 
not make up my mind to touch it. I could not rest either 
without coming to thank you. When you speak kindly 
to me, or look kindly at me, I feel as a flower must feel 
when the sun shines full on it. I have not three minutes 
to spare — Lady Waldrove will be waiting for me. 

* ‘ Lord Carsdale, ” she continued, ‘ ‘ you will not be angry 
if I tell you something — it is but a foolish trifle. I have 
heard the story of Patient Griselda, and I could almost be- 
lieve that it was written purposely for me — and I — you will 
not think me vain or presumptuous ?” 


330 


YOU LOVE ME?' 


“I could never think you either, Ailie,” he replied. 

“A hope came to me ; I think that I love my husband 
just as much as Griselda loved hers, and I am quite sure 
that I could do as much for him.” 

He started ; it seemed so strange to him even now, that 
he should be her husband, while Lady Efhel loved him, 
and he loved her. 

“I have b^en wondering and hoping whether, if I am 
patient and loving as she was, you will ever learn to care 
for me, I must not wait to hear your answer; I only 
came to thank you. You are not angry with me?” 

No, 1 am not angry; how could I be ?” 

Again the warm, sweet lips touched his hand, and the 
next moment she had left him as quietly as she came. He 
stood up in despair. 

“Where, from earth to heaven, am I to look for help?” 
he said. “I cannot break that loving, gentle heart. I 
cannot always act a lie. I see no way out of the difficulty 
into which my own folly has plunged me.” 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

“DO YOU LOVE ME?” 

Lord Carsdale was tossed on the sea of doubt ; he suf- 
fered more bitterly for this one act of folly than some peo- 
ple suffer for a terrible sin; he could find no rest, no 
refuge for his thoughts, no comfort ; he stood as it were, 
between two women, each young and tender cf heart; one 
he loved dearly, the other had the greatest of all claims on 


t 


“Z?0 YOU LOVE ME?^^ 


331 


him. His heart was sorely troubled, his whole soul was 
distressed ; he was at a loss what to do. He loved Lady 
Ethel, and, as was natural, his love pleaded for her; he 
pitied his young wife, and pity pleaded for her. He was 
miserable with his doubts and feafs. 

The plan which seemed most feasible to him was that he 
should get a divorce from his wife, a legal separation, and 
then marry Lady Ethel. Was such a separation possible.? 
He did not know. He had, as a matter of course, no 
charge whatever to bring against his wife ; far from that, 
he had the greatest esteem for her. The only possible 
grounds on which he could seek for a separation would be 
that he was married before he came of age, without the 
permission of his parents, and that the marriage was in 
every way unsuitable. 

Then he said to himself that the very sound of these 
reasons was absurd. Still he would see what was the legal 
view of the matter. He was perfectly ignorant of the law 
of marriage, only he imagined that in the existing state of 
the marriage laws it was easy to get a divorce, or to pro- 
cure a legal separation, if it were desired. He did not 
quite know if he wished it. He did not like the idea of 
causing Ailie any pain; he could not bear to think of it; 
nor, on the other hand, did he like to think that Lady 
Ethel should suffer. Of the two there was no doubt which 
he preferred — life with Lady Ethel would be one grand 
dream of delight ; life with Ailie would — well, he had not 
thought of it. His marriage, that Quixotic act of folly, 
was the one thing which of late years he had so earnestly 
tried to forget. It seemed to him that the first and the 
most just action would be to see if his idea were really 
correct — if Lady Ethel really loved him. Yet how could 
he find that out ? Her proud reserve of the other evening 


332 


YOU LOVE ME?'"' 


showed him that she would never give any sign of her love 
unless he asked for it. 

“I must ask her if it be true,” he said. “Yet how can 
I? — ill what words.? She will think me a coxcomb. Still 
it must be done. I can decide on no^ plan, settle no 
action, arrange nothing, until I know whether she loves 
me.” 

Having formed some kind of plan was a relief to his 
mind ; he would wait his opportunity, and then quietly, 
without any preamble, in brief words, he would ask Lady 
Ethel if she cared for him. With ail his faults there was 
such a vein of straightforward earnestness in his character 
that he saw nothing strange or singular in such a course of 
proceeding. 

He felt somewhat at ease. Just as he crossed the lawn, 
for he had been smoking in the grounds, he met the earl, 
who asked him if he would join him in a ride round the 
park. A few minutes afterward Lord Carsdale entered the 
morning-room, where his mother, Lady Ethel, Lady Ger- 
trude, and Ailie were. He laid one of his riding-gloves on 
the table. 

“I am one of the most unfortunate of men,” he said; 
“every button belonging to me comes off twice as often 
as those belonging to other men. See, these are both 
gone. ” 

He laid the glove down upon the table. 

“I will do it,” said Lady Ethel. 

But before she could reach it Ailie had raised the glove 
from the table. 

“I have my work-box here,” she said, quietly, going 
over to the little stand on which the box stood. 

Lady Ethel would have given anything to have stitched 


“Z?(9 YOU LOVE MET 


333 


the button on the glove for him, but there was something 
in Ailie's manner, in the determined air with which she 
took possession of it, that forbade all interference. No 
one had the courage to go to her and say : 
will do that instead of you.” 

Lord Carsdale saw it, but said nothing. When it was 
neatly stitched Ailie brought it back to him ; she never 
even raised her eyes to his as she gave it to him, so that 
any half-formed suspicion in the mind of any one present 
soon died away — she had done it to save them trouble, 
they thought. But in Ailie’s mind there was a sense of 
quiet satisfaction — she had mended her husband’s glove 
and prevented her rival from doing it. Then Lord Cars- 
dale went off for his gallop, but more than once he looked 
at that glove with thoughtful eyes. 

The same little incident dwelt in Lady Ethel’s mind, 
and disquieted her, small as it was. She fancied that 
Lord Carsdale would think she had not been so quickly 
anxious to serve him as his mother’s companion ; so that 
when he returned from his drive, she was there to welcome 
him. She talked to him more kindly than she had done 
for some days, and Ailie saw it all. She saw that her hus- 
band at first almost seemed to struggle against the charm 
and fascination that the young heiress evidently had for 
him, then that he yielded to it ; and they spent the even- 
ing over some books and photographs. 

While Ailie watched with a jealous heart, she showed no 
signs of it. Once or twice, when Lady Waldrove sent her 
with different messages to her son or Lady Ethel, she de- 
livered them with a smiling face, and in her eyes no 
shadow of discontent lay. She said to herself that it was 
quite certain that Patient Griselda never looked cross or 
impatient — that if she was to win her husband s heart at 


334 


“Z?0 VOC/ LOVE MET 


all, it must be by always looking bright and cheerful, no 
matter what happened. 

In her heart she felt it, and she made no outward sign. 
She could not help seeing that Lady Ethel had a most 
supreme influence over her husband, and she was power- 
less to counteract it. 

Lord Carsdale had decided upon a course of action, and 
he said to himself that now the sooner he brought his 
complicated matters to some kind of settlement the better. 
The first object he had in view was to see if he was right 
in his suspicion — if Lady Ethel really loved him ; the 
second was, to take legal advice and see whether the sep- 
aration was practicable or not — he could think of no other 
plan. As it was, three people were unutterably miserable, 
three people were leading the most unhappy lives ; the un- 
happiness might be lessened. He wished that it were pos- 
sible. Could he have taken it all, he would willingly 
have suffered it to have seen Lady Ethel and Ailie happy. 
He resolved that evening to know something. 

The earl and countess were busy over a game at ecarte. 
The visitors were engaged each one in different fashion. 
He did not see Ailie; she had left the room. Then he 
took Lady Ethel to the other end of the long drawing- 
room, where the great glass doors led to the lighted con- 
servatory. 

“ How beautiful the flowers look,” she said. 

Had any one else been with her she would have sug- 
gested that they should go through it; as it was, she 
refrained, and he did not mention it. They stood at the 
open glass door, where the sweet breath of the flowers 
came to them like a fragrant message, then he spoke. 

“ Lady Ethel,” he said, ‘"your friendship and mine has 
been a strange one, so unlike all others, that it justifies me 


“Z>(9 YOU LOVE AfEr* 


335 

in asking what would otherwise be a strangely insolent 
question. '' 

She looked up at him. 

*‘No question of yours could ever deserve that name,” 
she said. 

*‘This will. I want to ask you, and I almost hate 
myself as I do so — I want to ask you ” 

Then he paused. 

It seemed easier to die there than to ask that question, 
which he could not follow by an offer of marriage. He 
paused, and the brave, handsome face grew white as 
death. She laid one hand on his arm. 

“You need not fear me,” she said, gently ; “we are, as 
you say, such old and true friends. I should not have 
thought that there was anything on earth you would have 
feared to say to me.” 

“I would sooner face a regiment all with drawn swords 
than I would ask what I have to ask,” he replied. “Before 
I ask, will you forgive me, Lady Ethel ?” 

“Yes,” she replied, quietly; “you know that I will.” 

“Lady Ethel, the question that I want to ask is this: 
Do you love me ?” 

She made no answer, and he continued : 

“If I could tell you all — if I could give you the history 
of the last five years — if I could tell you the story of a — a 
terrible mistake, you would understand that no light, 
mean, or unworthy motive prompts me, but a terrible 
anxiety, the result of which is life or death. I have no 
vain thought; I ask you the question with the gravest 
anxiety a man can feel. You are too true and too noble a 
woman to refuse me an answer. Lady Ethel, do you love 
me?” 




"DO YOU LOVE MEt" 


336 

*'1 will answer as frankly as you have asked,” she 
replied. “Yes.” 

And then there was a long silence ; across the white, 
haggard pain of his face came even in that moment a 
gleam of rapturous delight ; yet, even in that moment, the 
thought crossed his mind that if she had said “no,” he 
need not have broken Ailie’s heart. 

“Yes,” she repeated. “ I do not know your motive in 
a.sking me ; perhaps some women would have declined it, 
would have said *no,' and sacrificed everything for pride. 
I am proud, but in owning that I love you I do not lose 
sight of this fact — that five years ago, when circumstances 
threw us together, you left nothing undone to win my 
love, and I have loved you ever since. ” 

He bent his head with a low murmur of pain. 

“As you say,” she continued, “I do not know all; I 
have always thought that there was some mystery in your 
life — some story which the world did not know — you will 
tell it to me in your own good time. Shall we go back ? 
Lady Waldrove evidently thinks our tete-a-tete a long one.” 

“ May God pardon me !” he said. “ If I have not been 
wicked, I have been a reckless man. ” 

They went back again, and Lady Ethel, without another 
word, left him and joined a merry group just finishing a 
round game at cards. Lord Carsdale looked as he felt — 
unhappy. Ailie was not present. The countess called 
him to her. 

“You have found something very interesting to talk to 
Ethel about, ” she said ; but, to her surprise, he made her 
no laughing answer. 

“I do not know that we have either of us been very 
much amused,” he replied; and Lady Waldrove, seeing 
that he looked both dull and gloomy, said no more. 


“/ WOULD DIE TO FREE YOU:* 


337 


CHAPTER L. 

*‘l WOULD DIE TO FREE YOU.” 

Lord Carsdale was very unhappy as he paced uneasily to 
and fro on the western terrace that evening. He said to 
himself that, even had he sinned most terribly, he could 
not have been more terribly punished. 

‘‘Yet, I was only imprudent,” he said to himself; “I 
did not willfully do wrong ; I acted from a mad sense of 
honor; and if I had been of all men the most deficient in 
honor, I could not have brought upon myself or others 
more fatal consequences.” 

He could not bear the thought of having made Lady 
Ethel suffer.; he could not endure the thought that he 
must break Ailie’s heart. 

“ It seems cowardly to wish that I had never been born,” 
he said to himself; “but it is true; or I wish that my life 
had been something very different to what it is. ” 

He re-entered the house. The night was dark, for the 
moon was not in a gracious mood, and would not shine. 
From out of the strange shadows he saw a slender, girlish 
figure come cautiously ; then again his hand was taken by 
the soft, white hands — he knew none so well — and warm, 
soft lips touched them. He knew that Ailie, his wife, had 
followed him to say one word to him. 

“I was so happy to-day,” she said, “because I had 
that glove of yours to mend. How little makes some 
people quite content. I feel as though I had won a king- 
dom when I have the chance of doing some little thing 
for you. ” 


338 


“/ WOULD DIE TO FREE YOU." 


‘^Poor child !” he said. 

But Ailie looked up into his face with a smile. 

“ I am not poor,” she replied ; “you must not call me 
so. How can I be poor when I have the chance of seeing 
you so often? Poverty would mean opver seeing you 
at all.” 

“Do you, then, love me so very much?” he asked, 
sadly ; and the girl looked at him with a wonderful light 
on her face. 

“ My love, my love !” she whispered, “ some day, when 
your heart is larger and your soul grander than it is now, 
you may know how much. ” 

He was half startled at her words. 

“You think I cannot appreciate your love just now, 
then ?” 

“lam sure,” she returned, quietly; “to appreciate it, 
would be to return it. I had but two minutes, and they 
are over; I must go, Lord Carsdale. How happy it makes 
me to have spoken to you ! Say ‘ good-night, Ailie, and — 
God bless you. ' ” 

“Good-night, and God bless you,” he replied. 

He could say no more, knowing in how short a time he 
must say words to her that would break her heart. 

Then he was alone again ; and now his eyes were dim 
with the mist of tears, and he was more miserable than 
when she found him. That gentle, tender, loving heart, 
how was he to plunge this cruel dagger in it — how could 
he? It seemed to him easier far to plunge a dagger in 
the soft, white neck, or to brand the fair, pure face with 
an iron brand. He smoked one cigar after another ; they 
brought him neither peace nor inspiration. He walked 
miles. Strong as he was, he felt some little fatigue ; but 
he could not shake off the thoughts which haunted him. 


“/ WOULD DIE TO FREE YOU:' 


339 


or the sorrow^ that pursued him. Once he thought of 
fleeing ; but flight, he said to himself, was the resource of 
a coward — he would never do that ; even if he did, flight 
would not help him — he should take his difficulties with 
him ; he could not run away from the consequences of 
his own folly. There was not a more miserable man in 
England than the heir of Roseneath that night. He felt 
like a man with a sword over his head — a man with a 
skeleton always by his side — a man who had before him a 
terrible alternative. 

Nor was Lady Ethel much less puzzled. What could 
that abrupt question have meant? No offer of marriage 
had followed it, or would follow it. No pleasure, no hap- 
piness — no expectation of anything of the kind followed it. 
Why had he asked her ? She thought of every imaginable 
reason, but none satisfied her. She saw that she had been 
right in one respect ; she had correctly imagined that he 
had a story — a mystery in his life — and the solution of 
that story was the reason why he had not asked her to 
marry him. 

Lord Carsdale could not decide when he was to tell Ailie 
of his decision. It was one thing to say to himself that 
he must break her heart ; it was quite another to decide 
the day and the hour. He was struck one morning by her 
patient gentleness. The ladies were all in the morning- 
room, busy in discussing the dresses for a charade party, 
which the countess had decided on giving ; Captain Moore, 
Lord Carsdale, and one or two others were with them. 
Lady Waldrove had just received some intelligence that 
displeased her very much — it was the marriage of one of 
her relations, a pretty girl of nineteen, who had, to use my 
lady’s own expression, deliberately thrown herself away on 
a penniless but very handsome hussar. 


340 


“/ WOULD DIE TO FREE YOU” 


do not call such conduct by the mild name of mad- 
ness,” said the countess, proudly; ^'it is wickedness and 
crime. No man or woman has a right to marry beneath 
his or her station ; it is cruel and unpardonable. I would 
never forgive such a thing.” , 

“Perhaps in some one very near and dear to you, you 
might,” observed one of the ladies; but the countess drew 
herself up proudly. 

“That I should not,” she said ; “the nearer and dearer 
the person was to me who committed such a folly, the 
more I should punish it. I would never speak to son or 
daughter again who served me in that fashion.” 

“That would be very cruel,” said Lady Legard. 

“I do not think so. I believe that if parents were 
firmer, and showed more plainly by the severity of their 
anger how unpardonable such crime is, there would be 
less of it. ” 

“I think, mamma,” laughed Lady Gertrude, “that you 
are the last in the world with anything of this kind to 
fear. You have but two unmarried children — Vivian and 
myself ; there is little fear that we shall ever marry be- 
neath us.” 

And as Lady Gertrude uttered these words, the eyes of 
husband and wife met. Ailie’s beautiful face had grown 
very pale, while Lord Carsdale had flushed crimson. Any 
one seeing them just at that moment must have guessed 
their secret. Lady Waldrove was unusually eloquent on 
the matter. 

“I do not suppose there is, my dear Gertrude. Such 
absurdities do not enter my mind ; I am speaking gener- 
ally. I should just as soon expect you both to turn out 
forgers, or something equally dreadful, as to marry beneath 
you ; the very words have a nauseous sound. ” 


“/ WOULD DIE TO FREE VOCV* i 

“I am quite sure that I shall never do so,” laughed 
Lady Gertrude. “ I leave Vivian to answer for himself.” 

“ Oh, Vivian has too much good sense,” said the count- 
ess ; “I should never be afraid of such a thing from 
him.” 

“I think the discussion veiy foolish and very useless,” 
said Lord Carsdale, briefly. 

The countess turned quickly round. 

“It is not often that I differ with you, but I do this 
time. Such a discussion is of the very highest importance, 
and I am only soriy that I cannot denounce such iniquities 
as unequal marriages more strongly than I do.” 

And again the eyes of husband and wife met. 

“ There may be excuses at times,” pleaded gentle Lady 
Legard. 

“There can be none,” said the countess, sternly. “If 
the daughter I loved married beneath her, I would never 
look upon her face again. If the son I cherished did so, 
he should henceforth be no more than a stranger to me.” 

“We will change the subject,” said Lord Cajsdale ; “it 
is not a pleasant one. ” 

And Lady Legard very adroitly told a story of some 
charade party given at a house where she had been visiting. 
The subject was not resumed, but Lord Carsdale saw that 
his young wife’s face did not regain its coloring. He saw 
that her hands trembled so much that it was with difficulty 
she could hold her book. All the chivalry of his nature 
was aroused. He felt inclined to take that trembling 
figure in his arms and defy the whole world ; he felt in- 
clined to say : 

“I have married beneath me — this is my wife! Now 
do and say your worst !” 


342 


«‘/ WOULD DIE TO FREE YOU.** 


But one look at the pale, beautiful, gentle face quieted 
him — that would be to expose her to insult. 

He made some excuse for quitting the room soon after ; 
he could not have remained there much longer without 
betraying himself. 

That same evening he had gone to the library in search 
of a book, hoping to be able to distpact his attention. 
Most of the gentlemen, he knew, were in the smoking- 
room ; the ladies had gone to their rooms. As he stood 
in the dimly-lighted room, Ailie entered, with a lighted 
wax taper in her hand. 

“ I knew you were here,” she said ; “do not fear to let 
me speak to you — there is no one in this part of the house 
at all. Lady Waldrove asked me to find her ^ The Three 
Musketeers.' I am going to read to her, but I shall have 
time to say one word to you. ” 

He looked sadly at the fair, young face, thinking him- 
self what trouble and sorrow he had brought upon her. 
She placed the taper on one of the tables; then she stood 
before him, so fair, so gentle, so loving, his heart was 
touched. She looked up into his face with her sweet, 
innocent eyes, in which lay no shadow of fear — nothing 
but devotion and truth. 

“My love,” she said, gently, “is not my life, and all 
that it holds, your own?” 

“ Yes,” he replied, sadly ; “I believe so, Ailie.” 

“I have come to say to you, have no fear. I heard all 
that Lady Waldrove said to-day. I knew that each word 
was torture to you. Have no fear, no one shall' ever know 
our secret. I will sacrifice anything in the world rather 
than that should happen. I will never ask you to risk 
your mother's anger by making our marriage known. Oh, 
my love, my love, if I could but die to free you 1” 


ADMIRATION IS NOT LOVE, 


343 


“ Do not say that, Ailie ; it is like tempting Providence,” 
he said, gravely. 

She laughed. 

“My love,” she said, “do you think that in my mind 
there is any comparison between my death and your free- 
dom? There is none. But I must not wait; I only want 
to swear fealty to you ever and over again — to swear to you 
that nothing shall ever draw from me this secret of my 
marriage. I see and understand now all that seemed so 
strange to me before.” 

The next minute she had taken up her book and taper, 
and had left the room ; while he asked himself, “ Had any 
man so fair and loving a wife ?” 


CHAPTER LI. 

ADMIRATION IS NOT LOVE. 

The whole party at Roseneath Abbey were assembled in 
the library ; some of the gentlemen had gone out riding or 
driving, the ladies were holding a solemn assembly still on 
the same subject — the famous charade party. Lord Cars- 
dale had preferred joining the discussion ; it was some 
years since he had been at a charade party, and he was 
desirous of seeing them. Lady Ethel was busy discussing 
what was to be done, Ailie in finding books and references 
for Lady \Valdrove. The day was fine and beautiful, the 
sun shone warm and bright through the open windows, the 
flowers laughed in the lovely morning light, everything 
was bright and happy except the three whose lives were all 
marred by one act of supreme folly. 


344 


ADMIRATION IS NOT LOVE. 


Lord Carsdale went to the book-shelves, and, after 
standing there some little time, he took down a book, 
and crossing the room, laid it before Ailie. 

“You were inquiring about old French costumes. Miss 
Derwent, ” he said ; ‘ ‘ look at this. ” 

From the quiet significance of his tone Ailie knew there 
was more in the few words than they seemed. She took 
the book from his hands, and saw a folded paper. Five 
minutes afterward, when she had an opportunity of open- 
ing it, she did so, and found the words : 

‘ ‘ I want to see you particularly. Could you be on the 
western terrace to-night, after eleven V* 

“ How cautious he is,” she thought to herself, first of 
all; “there is no name.” 

Then she began to wonder why he wished to see her. 

Never did the hours of any day pass so slowly ; it seemed 
to Ailie that they would never end ; she could not have 
told how they had passed. She saw a crowd of faces, but 
recognized none of them ; she heard voices, but the tones 
were strange to her ear. She went through her duties 
mechanically, her heart was still with wonder and surprise. 
Why did he want her? Could it possibly be that he had 
learned to care some little for her, and was going to tell 
her so? Would the long, cruel hours never pass? She 
must go through the torture of dinner, of dessert, of 
music — never, surely, had one day been so long ! 

Then came ten, and Lady Waldrove, tired of a day of- 
fer her — unusual fatigue, began to talk of retiring. The 
gentlemen, as a rule, always went to the smoking-room 
when the ladies retired, and left it, each one as his fancy 
dictated. The young ladies of the party talked over the 
occurrences of the day in each other’s rooms, so that Ailie 
knew she should have every chance of what she wanted — 


ADMIRATION IS NOT LOVE. 


345 


an hour to herself. It would be awkward, of course, if 
Lady Waldrove wanted her to read, as she often did ; but 
even if that were the case, if he really wanted to see her, 
he would wait until she came. She heard every one say- 
ing good-night ; she saw Lady Waldrove, who loved her 
son, if she loved anything on earth, kiss him and wish 
him pleasant dreams. She stood by her side when this 
was done, and never once did her eyes seek her husband's 
face. 

“ How careful she is,” he thought; ‘‘how true she is to 
me !” 

When the ladies had all disappeared it was after eleven. 
Sir Charles Legard asked him if he were going to join 
them in a cigar, to which he replied : 

‘ ‘ No, not this evening. ” 

“You look gloomy, Vivian,” said the Earl of Waldrove 
to his son. “There is nothing the matter, is there? I 
hope you did riot leave your heart at Gibraltar Pier?” 

“ I am quite sure of that, sir,” replied his son. 

“ Nothing wrong over money, is there?” asked the earl. 
“ Young men will be young men, as I know. If you want 
any, remember I am your banker.” 

“My dear father, you are very kind, but I do not even 
spend all I have, so that I cannot want more.” 

“Well,” said the earl, with a quaint sigh, “ I can say no 
more. If it be neither love nor money that clouds your 
face, my dear boy, I am a poor guesser.” 

“I am not quite sure that my face is clouded,” said 
Lord Carsdale, laughingly ; but his voice had not the light 
ring in it, and he turned away with a sigh. 

He would have given all that he had to have avoided the 
scene that he must pass through. He was a man of ten- 
der heart, sensitive to the highest degree over pain ; he 


346 


ADMIRATION IS NOT LOVE. 


could not endure to inflict it on others ; he could not bear 
to see it. Of late he had understood more and more how 
dearly and deeply Ailie loved him, how entirely her whole 
life was wrapped in his ; he began to understand what the 
terrible pain would be to her. On the other hand was the 
woman he loved, Lady Ethel — her life and her happiness 
to be considered. " ' 

He went to the western terrace with something of the 
feeling of a man who goes to his doom. The night was 
dark and silent, with a sweet dewy quiet and repose about 
it. There was no moon, and few stars ; a fragrant dark- 
ness lay over the silent earth. He found Ailie there. He 
did not see her at first, but when he walked to the stone 
ballustrade and looked through the darkness to the flowers 
below, she came up to him very quietly. 

“Lord Carsdale,” she said, “you wanted me, and I am 
here." 

He stood quite silent for one minute, almost unable to 
stir, so great was his emotion. Then he turned round. 
Even in the darkness her beautiful, passionate face shone 
out clear as a star; her golden hair and white hands 
seemed to draw all the light there was to themselves. 

He looked for one minute at the fair, pure face, then he 
thought to himself it would be better by far if they could 
both die there together — he before he told his story, she 
before she heard it. 

“Shall we cross the ground, Ailie, and go into the 
park?" he asked. 

“Yes, " she replied. “ I will go anywhere that you like. ” 

Then they walked down the broad flight of steps that 
led from the terrace to the ground. As they entered the 
park they turned, as though by mutual consent, to look at 
the house. The greater part of the massive, picturesque 


ADMIRATION IS NOT LOVE, 


347 


building lay in darkness ; from the windows of the smok- 
ing-room, on the ground floor, there came a broad stream 
of light; from the windows of the rooms on the second 
floor came a lesser light ; and Ailie saw her husband look, 
with wistful eyes, at the window of the room where Lady 
Ethel slept. 

‘‘You thought that so near the house we might be 
seen?” she said. “ I had the same idea. It is much safer 
here.” 

Then they did not speak again until they reached the 
lake-side, and Lord Carsdale said, gravely : 

‘ ‘ Sit down here, Ailie. That which I have to say will 
take some time. I must not tire you. ” 

Ailie sat down. He stood leaning against the iron seat, 
thinking to himself it would be easier to kill her than to 
break her heart. In the darkness he could just see the 
fair, innocent face; the eyes so full of trust and faith ; the 
sweet, sensitive lips. He could see it, and he hated to 
speak the words which would bring the bitterness of death 
and sorrow there. It had to be done, and he knew that 
the longer he stood watching her, the more unwilling he 
would be to begin. 

“Ailie,” he said, with desperate earnestness, “I want to 
speak to you as I have never spoken to you before — heart 
to heart. I want to tell you my story — my love — my sor- 
row — my desire. ” 

Even in the darkness he saw the sudden gloom that 
came over her face. She rose from her seat. 

‘ ‘ Let me be nearer to you then. Lord Carsdale, ” she 
said. “Sitting here, it seems to me that I am twenty 
miles away. Let me be nearer to you. Somewhere — 
where I can hold your hand. ” 

“It will be better not, Ailie,” he said, gravely. 


ADMIRATION IS NOT LOVE, 


348 

But she did not seem to have heard him. She stood by 
his side, looking at him intently, as though life or death 
depended on his words. She took his hand ; he could not 
refuse her. 

‘‘ Poor, gentle child,” he thought. It is almost for the 
last time.” 

*^What are you going to say to me, my love.?” said 
Ailie. “ See how the leaves there tremble and shudder in 
the wind, yet they do not tremble as I do. You look so 
grave, I am afraid, sorely afraid. ” 

“Listen to me, Ailie,” he said, “and believe me that I 
hate myself as I speak — that I would give the world, were 
it mine, to free myself from the odium that must cling to 
me. I — I am not what people call a religious man ; but I 

beg pardon of God, and of you, Ailie — of you ” 

“I have nothing to forgive,” she said. “You have 
been all that was most generous and noble to me. ” 

“ I must go back to the beginning of our acquaintance- 
ship,” he said, “to make my story clear. Ailie, the day 
that I went suddenly to the housekeeper’s room and saw 
you was an unfortunate day for us both. ” 

“Not for me, love,” Ailie said, gently; “not for me.” 
“For us both, Ailie; had we never met, you would 
have loved and married some one who would have made 
you a far better husband than I have ever done. ” 

‘ ‘ I would rather have misery from your hands than hap- 
piness from another,” she said. 

“You know, Ailie, that after all there has been no de- 
ceit. That day when I saw you first, I thought you the 
prettiest girl I had ever seen. I — you know it, so I need 
not tell you — I did not love you. I have never loved you, 
Ailie, but I admire you. I admired you that moment, 


ADMIRATION IS NOT LOVE. 


349 

and I have done so ever since ; but admiration is not love, 
is it, Ailie?’' 

‘*No, indeed, ”^she replied, with a sudden little smile, 
*‘it is not love. Lord Carsdale.” 

“No; we both agree there. As I tell you, Ailie, I ad- 
mired you, and you seemed to me so innocent, so help- 
less ; and when I spoke to you, you told me that you had 
so little happiness. The thought that came into my mind 
was of the great difference between our lives; I had had 
so much pleasure, you so little, that I longed to put some 
little happiness in your way. I thought of no more than 
that at the time — no more.” 

“I know it,” said Ailie, gently; “It was a generous 
thought; one that only comes from a generous mind.” 

“I puzzled myself for some little time until I thought 
of that unfortunate regatta. Now, Ailie, I ought to have 
had more sense; I ought to have known better than to 
have persuaded a young girl like you to go out for a day 
in that fashion, but I meant no harm, only that you should 
have one day’s pleasure. ” 

“ I know it,” she replied, gently. 

“All our misfortune came from that,” he said; “and, 
Ailie, it is of the consequences of that day I want to speak 
to you now. ” 

Then she knew the hour which she had long waited for 
had arrived, and that her husband was going to speak to 
her about her marriage. 


350 


«/ CANNOT SIN FOR YOU ^ 


CHAPTER LII. 

“l CANNOT SIN FOR YOU!'^, 

“I always had a chivalrous idea of women,” continued 
Lord Carsdale; “ I cannot understand the men who make 
little of them and speak against them. Ailie, I did not 
love you, but when I saw you weeping in such distress, 
frightened at your uncle, frightened at your parents, fright- 
ened at the world, at the darkness, at once my heart was 
touched with pity. I would have given anything to have 
helped you. I was but an ignorant, foolish, simple boy, 
and I said to myself that as my imprudence had brought 
you to the brink of something terrible, I must at any cost 
save you. The most honorable thing which occurred to 
me,” he went on, with dignified simplicity, “was that I 
should marry you.” 

“I remember it all so well,” she replied, with a shudder 
that made her tremble. 

“Then, you see, Ailie, when I decided that I was igno- 
rant and foolish, I never thought of the consequences ; all 
I did think of was that you must be rescued from an un- 
pleasant situation ; that afterward I must either greatly 
anger and distress my parents, or that I must keep my 
marriage secret, did not at the time occur to me; that 
I was not marrying for love, and that afterward I might 
possibly find some one to love, never occurred to me. 
Ailie, may God pardon my recklessness, but I believe 
honestly I married with far less thought than I should 
have given to the choosing of even a trifle like a riding- 


»/ CANNOT SIN FOR YOUP* 


351 

whip. My one sole idea was to save you from any 
unpleasant consequences ; then ” 

She looked up at him with grave anxiety deepening 
on her beautiful face. 

“Then?” she said, quietly. “I am afraid to hear the 
rest, Lord Carsdale.” 

“ It is not pleasant, but it must be told,” he said. “I 
married you, Ailie, and you know that we have never been 
husband and wife — we have only been good friends ; there 
has been no mention of love, no attempt at deception; 
you were saved from the consequences of my imprudence, 
and that was all.” 

“ Yes,” she replied, sadly, “ that was all.” 

“Then, Ailie, I had time to reflect, and I saw at once 
that I had done a terrible deed — one which, if known, 
would cut me off forever from those I loved at home. I 
argued in this way with myself — that for them to know of 
it would cause them bitter anger, bitter regrets, almost de- 
spair, and would part me from parents whom I love, as 
you know. You have heard my mother’s ideas on the 
subject. ” 

“Yes,” said Ailie, sadly, “I know them well.” 

“Then, I thought, I did not love you, you did not love 
me, and it would never matter to either of us that we sel- 
dom saw each other. I fancied that if I made you quite 
comfortable, so far as the things of this world were con- 
cerned, you would not trouble much about me, nor I 
about you.” 

“But in this you were mistaken,” said Ailie. “I 
neither wanted money, nor any other comfort ; it was sim- 
ply that I loved you.” 

“I did not know it — I never thought of it; I never 
thought of love in connection with either of us,” he 


352 


“/ CANNOT SIN FOR YOUr 


replied. * ‘ I had not given much thought to love at all ; 
but, Ailie, when I had left you with your friends and came 
home here to Roseneath, I fell in love for the first and 
only time in my life.” 

She held up her hands as though he had struck her 
a terrible blow. 

Do not say that !” she cried. ‘‘For God’s dear sake, 
do not say that 1” 

“It is true,” he replied. “I must tell you, Ailie; I 
would spare you all knowledge of it, if I could ; I would 
refrain from telling you, if I could ; but you must hear my 
story, Ailie, or you cannot judge. I will not hide even 
one thought from you. I met Lady Ethel — it is five years 
ago ; she was beautiful then as she is now, and I loved her 
the first moment that I saw her ; there was no help for it ; 
but, Ailie, I remembered also there was a barrier between 
us. ” 

The fair young face had grown deadly pale ; the sweet, 
sensitive lips were quivering like the lips of a grieved 
child. 

“Tell me. Lord Carsdale,” she said, “did she — did 
Lady Ethel like you ?” 

“ I will tell you the whole truth. I know now that she 
loved me. We parted, and I quite believed that before I 
returned to England she would be married and have for- 
gotten all about me. But I find that for five years she has 
loved me, and has been true to her memory of me.” 

“So have I,” said Ailie. “ Oh, my love I my love ! she 
cannot have cared more for you, or have thought more of 
you, than I have done.” 

Then there was silence ; but the leaves on the trees did 
not tremble as she did ; the face of a dead woman could 
not have been whiter than hers. 


«/ CANNOT SIN FOR YOUr 


353 


* ‘ Ailie, ” said Lord Carsdale, “I have asked you to meet 
me here to-night because I am going to put my life, 
more than my life, in your hands. I confess to you that I 
love Lady Ethel — that from all the world she is my 
one chosen love, and she loves me. ” 

She raised her hands again with a low moan. 

“Be pitiful to me, ’ she said; “I cannot hear such 
words and live. You have no mercy. Lord Carsdale.” 

He was silent for a few minutes ; then, very gently and 
very kindly, he said : 

“If you really wish me to say no more, Ailie, I will be 
silent ; but I prefer to speak. It pains me more to speak 
than it pains you to listen.” 

“Tell me all,” she said; “I must hear it some time, 
why not now.? You love Lady Ethel, and she loves you. 
But for the barrier between you — my most wretched self — 
you would, oh ! so gladly, ask her to be your wife. Is it 
so. Lord Carsdale?” 

“Yes, Ailie, it is so; and that brings me to the 
object I had in asking you to come here. I want to 
ask you, if I can obtain by any means a legal sep- 
aration, a legal dissolution of our marriage, will you 
consent?” 

With a wild cry she fled from him, and flung herself, 
with her face down, on the soft, thick grass. 

“ My God ! my God !” he heard her cry. 

He could not see in the darkness, but he hastened 
to the spot whence the sound came. He went to her ; he 
would fain have raised her frotn the ground and have 
shielded the trembling figure in his arms. He did not 
love her, but he would fain have kissed the tears from her 
face ; he did not love her, but the sound of those terrible 


354 


«/ CANNOT SIN FOR YOUr 


sobs pierced his heart with pain sharper than that of a two- 
edged sword. 

“Do not touch me!” she cried, as in the darkness 
he laid his hand on her; “do not touch me, or I shall 
die I” 

The most terrible hour of his life was the hour he spent 
in listening to the passionate weeping of the woman who 
loved him, and whose heart he was breaking. The terrible 
sobs died away at last, and his own eyes were dim with 
tears. He felt almost like a murderer, as he stood there, 
not daring to touch her ; but as her weeping grew fainter, 
and the passionate sobs died away, he went to her. He 
raised her from the ground, and this time she did not 
resist. 

“Ailie,” he said, gently, “I am so very grieved. I 
had hoped you would not feel it so keenly.” 

“I can listen to you now again,” she said. “You were 
asking me — what was it.? Say it once more.?” 

She stood before him, her hands clasped, her white face 
raised to his, and he thought to himself that he had never 
seen such a perfect picture of desolate sorrow. It required 
some courage to repeat the words which had brought her 
to this. 

“ I want your consent, Ailie, to the legal dissolution of 
our marriage,” he said. 

“Can it be obtained?” she asked. “Is such a thing 
not only possible, but feasible ?” 

“ I do not know ; I cannot tell. It may, or it may not 
be. I have made no inquiry at present.” 

“Then why do you mention it to me?” she asked. 

“ Because I will not take any steps in the matter until I 
know what your opinion is. I have told you the whole 
truth ; now the decision rests with you, and you alone.” 


«/ CANNOT SIN FOR YOUr 


355 


“If I refuse my consent, you will not even go through 
the preliminary of seeking advice — you will not ask about 
it?’’ she said. 

‘ ‘ No. If, on thinking it over, Ailie, you decide against 
it, I will not — indeed I will not even mention it again.” 

“But, as you said. Lord Carsdale, the happiness of your 
life and of Lady Ethel’s is at stake. ” 

“It is so,” he replied, sadly. 

She looked up at him with a certain grandeur of soul 
shining in her face, which did not escape him. 

“I will try to think of it,” she said, “as though it were 
not my own case, but the case oT some other girl — 
some very tender-hearted, loving girl in whom I take 
a great interest ; I will think it all over. I wish — oh, my 
God, how I wish that I could die to free you !” 

“ I do not wish it, Ailie,” he said. 

“To die would be so easy. Oh, my love! my love! 
have you thought of it? Have you thought well of 
it? We were legally married. Before the eyes of the 
great God I am your wife. Do you believe. Lord Cars- 
dale, that men have power to disunite us ?” 

“I must believe what others do,” he replied. 

She came nearer to him, and laid her cold hand on his ; 
it was so cold that he started from the contact. 

“Love, think well of it; if I had been a bad wife 
to you — if I had deceived you, shadowed the beautiful 
name you have given me — perhaps then men would have 
the power to say to both of us, * You are free;’ but before 
God, the only reason that you can give for leaving 
me is that you do not love me. Oh, think, my love, 
before you ask me to do that which is wrong. I would die 
for you — I cannot sin fdr you ; but if I must sin, my hus- 


A SEPARATION DISCUSSED. 


356 

band, my love, let the sin be that I kill myself — rather that 
than the other ten thousand times !” 


CHAPTER LIII. 

A SEPARATION DISCUSSED. 

Think again, love,” continued the gentle voice, “be- 
fore you ask me to do this. There are laws which men 
cannot break with impunity, and the law that bids a man 
cherish his wife and be faithful to her, is one of the most 
solemn. If this world were the end of all, it would not 
matter so much, but there is another.” 

“I have no wish to do wrong, Ailie,” said Lord Cars- 
dale, “as you can see. I am so distressed, so grieved, 
that I cannot literally tell what to do. On whichever side 
I look, I see nothing but misery, despair, and unending 
sorrow. ” 

His voice died away in a low murmur, and for some 
few minutes there was silence, broken only by the sighing 
of the wind in the trees, and the rustling of the green 
leaves. 

Then Ailie came nearer to him ; her pale, beautiful face 
glowed in the darkness like a clear star. 

“Lord Carsdale,” she said, gently, “we have talked of 
the convenience of the mattter, of its right and wrong; 
tell me one thing more, and I will be quite content. 
Which will make you the happier, to be parted from me 
and live with Lady Ethel all the rest of your life, or to 
wait until you can say that I am your wife ?” 


A SEPARATION DISCUSSED. 


357 

There is little need to ask that question, Ailie,” he re- 
plied, gravely. 

‘‘But I do ask it, and I want you to answer me. Lord 
Carsdale. I want you to speak the words that I may hear 
them for myself ; in which case would you be happier?” 

‘ ‘ There can be but one answer to that, Ailie ; 1 love 
Lady Ethel, and I should be more happy with her.” 

She turned away with a long, deep sigh, forming a kind 
of desperate resolve to make the last appeal to him that 
she could — a desperate feeling such as comes at times over 
a man condemned to death. 

“Lord Carsdale,” she said, “could you never love me? 
I have strong claims on your love. I am your wife, and 
by virtue of that name alone, I should stand first in all the 
world to you — can you never love me? I am not so beau- 
tiful as Lady Ethel, but I am not displeasing in the sight 
of men. I have no money, no rank, no influence, but I 
have love ; I can love you as no one else in the wide world 
ever could. You are life of my life, heart of my heart, 
soul of my soul. I would serve you as woman never 
served man yet. Oh, my love! can you never love me?” 

“My dear Ailie,” he said, sadly, “love does not de- 
pend on ourselves ; we cannot love and unlove at will. If 
I asked you to-morrow to love some one else, could you do 
it?” 

“No; but then I am your wife,” she said, with mourn- 
ful dignity. 

“Even that will not call love into existence. Oh, Ailie I 
I wish you cared less for me ; but for that it would all be 
so easy. I cannot think why it is that you love me so.” 

“Then you are very short-sighted, Lord Carsdale,” she 
replied, quickly. “That you have not learned to love me 
I can easily understand ; there are women in the world ten 


358 


A SEPARATION DISCUSSED. 


thousand times fairer than I ; but who is there like you ? 
How could I see you, hear you, listen to your voice, look 
at your face, say to myself that I was your wife, and not 
love you? To suppose that I could do that would be to 
suppose that I had no human heart, no reason, no sense. 
How could I help loving you ? — gallant young hero who 
married me rather than let one shadow rest on my fair 
name? You should have made yourself less brave, less 
noble, less fair to see, less generous, if you desired to avoid 
my love.” 

“Oh, Ailie,” he repeated, with a low moan, “if you 
could care less for me, think less of me ; indeed, my dear, 
you mistake — I am not so noble or so generous as you 
think me. ” 

“It matters little what you are,” she repeated, “it 
makes little difference. I would rather a thousand times 
have death from your dear hands than love from another. 
I can say no more. Tell me, have you taken any steps at 
all toward this separation ?” 

“ No, not one — not yet. It may be that such a separa- 
tion could not be granted ; I know no more than yourself 
of the marriage laws. I may be quite wrong in thinking 
that such a thing can ever be, but I thought of trying- -it 
seems the only method of cutting a Gordian knot ; still I 
would not take even the preliminary steps without first ask- 
ing you and obtaining your consent. Ailie, the time is 
flying ; it is dangerous for you to stop out so late — tell me, 
have I your consent?” 

“No,” she replied, “I cannot give it to you — yet let 
me think it over, let me say some prayers over it. I can- 
not decide such a question ail at once. Give me twenty- 
four hours at least — that is not long in which to decide a 


A SEPARATION DISCUSSED. 


359 

destiny; and tell me, Lord Carsdale, if I cannot say ‘yes,’ 
what then ?” 

“What then, Ailie? Why, I see nothing for it but to 
go abroad again. You know that if my mother only 
guessed at our marriage, she would never speak to me 
again ; come what might, I should be compelled to go 
abroad, and remain there until I had no parents to make 
me miserable.” 

“And Lady Ethel !” she said, gently, “ what would be- 
come of her ?” 

“How can I tell? I can only hope, that in the years 
to come, she would marry and be happy. ” 

“Then, if I consent, and if it can be legally arranged, 
what then. Lord Carsdale ?” 

His manner brightened visibly; his voice grew clear and 
brisk. 

“In that case, I should busy myself over you first; I 
should make you happy as you could be, with every lux- 
ury and indulgence that money could purchase for you.” 

She laughed the saddest and the dreariest laugh that ever 
came from human lips. 

‘ ‘ And after that ?” she said. 

“Afterward I suppose that I should marry Lady Ethel, 
and make my parents perfectly and completely happy.” 

Yet, as he spoke, his heart almost yearned to her — he 
would have given anything to have comforted her; the 
sight and the knowledge of her pain were growing unen- 
durable to him. 

“I see,” she said, gently — “now I understand it all 
clearly. Patient Griselda would not have hesitated one 
moment — she would have said at onc.e, ‘you are free but 
1 have not reached that point of heroism yet — I would 
fain keep you if I could ; I would fain win your love if I 


A SEPARATION DISCUSSED. 


360 

could ; if I cannot, then I must do my best. I will think 
it all over, and in twenty-four hours you shall have my 
answer. ” 

‘‘Thank you, Ailie.” 

But, even as he spoke, he was half conscious of a 
strange kind of wonder whether she would say yes or no, 
and if it would be so perfectly impossible for him to love 
her as he had once believed. There is a wonderful charm 
in a great love, after all — it must win some return. 

She had gathered together all her powers of self-control 
before he had recovered himself. She knew that no pray- 
ers, no pleading, no wild outbursts of sorrow could avail 
her now, and a sweet, womanly dignity came to her. 

“ I have twenty-four hours more,” she said, quietly ; “I 
will pass them in thinking — I will not sleep ; that would 
be to waste precious moments. By this time to-morrow 
night we shall both know our fate, and then ” 

“You are veiy^ good, Ailie,” he said, “and I wish with 
all my heart that everything had been different. ” 

“I think we must go,” she said; “it is growing late, 
and I may have some difficulty in getting to my room.” 

He found himself, as he walked home, so gentle, so 
tender, so kind to her — he found himself saying, over and 
over again, “She loves me so dearly — she loves me so 
well !” He did not hurry through that walk as he had 
done through others ; and, whenever he roused himself, he 
found himself thinking, not of beautiful Lady Ethel, but 
of how dearly his wife loved him. 

They reached the little side door through which he always 
entered ; it opened at once, and he saw that the house lay 
in silence and darkness. 

“You will be quite safe, Ailie,” he said; “it any one 
meets you in the house, it will not matter, you are sup- 


A SEPARATION DISCUSSED. 361 

posed to go about as you will ; I was only afraid that you 
might be seen coming in — good-night.” 

He did not love her, and he was trying to get a legal 
separation from her. He honestly believed that he loved 
Lady Ethel with all his heart, yet when he said “good- 
night,” almost unconsciously he bent his handsome head 
down to her, and her white, tender arms stole around his 
neck. 

“Good-night, my beloved,” she said, gently, and then 
he kissed her white, beautiful face. 

“How cold you are, Ailie,” he said; “how deathly 
cold ; your face is like marble, and your hands are even 
w'orse. Let me hold them in mine a minute ; it is stand- 
ing out in the cold, dewy darkness that has chilled you.” 

“No,” she replied, and then the next minute his arms 
were clasped round her, and her face was hidden on his 
breast. 

“I >yish that I could die here,” she said, and then he 
recovered himself. 

He asked himself if he had gone mad. This was the 
wife he did not love, the wife from whom he was going to 
separate himself, whose heart he was breaking. 

“Good-night, Ailie,” he said. “I wish you were not 
so tired and ccld.” 

“Good-night, beloved. I wish that I were colder still," 
she replied. 

He stood at the outer door, waiting until she had disap- 
peared in the shadowy darkness, then he went out again, 
with heart and soul so rent and torn it was useless for him 
to think of sleep. 

Ailie went quietly up the long, wide staircase ; even if 
ony one should see her now it mattered very little — it could 
not matter less. Any ont meeting her would think that 


T//AT SEALS MY FATE r 


362 

she had been to find something, or to give some messages 
for the countess. Yet though she had said this to herself, 
it was some shock to her to meet Lady Gertrude face to 
face. Lady Gertrude looking very angry and annoyed. 

“ Miss Derwent,” cried the earl’s daughter, “it is past 
midnight. Why are you up?” 

‘ ‘ I have been busy, ” faltered Alice. 

“Busy at this hour of the night! Pray, may I ask on 
whose business have you been engaged ? If Lady Wal- 
drove has kept you until this hour, she has done it uncon- 
sciously, I am sure.” 

“ It is not Lady Waldrove, ” said the terrified girl; “it 
is myself — I have been doing something for myself. ” 

Lady Gertrude looked slightly contemptuous. 

“If that be really the case,” she said, “it is no matter 
of mine ; but I should advise you to keep earlier hours. 
It does not look quite the correct thing for a young girl to 
be wandering round a house like this after midnight. 
Good-night, Miss Derwent. ' 

“Good-night, Lady Gertrude,” was the answer. “I 
will remember what you have said. ” 


CHAPTER LIV. 

“that seals my fate!” 

“That girl is in some kind of mischief,” thought Lady 
Gertrude. “That is a guilty face, if ever I saw one. 
Surely she cannot have a lover in the house?” 

Lady Gertrude thought of all the eligible men. Captain 
Moore was the most general lover among them; but he 


was so hopelessly enslaved with Lady Ethel, that he would 
have no thought for any one else. 

“She seems to be such a good girl, too — so modest, so 
retiring and gentle. I cannot think that she would allow 
any love-making nonsense; still, she had a guilty face.'" 

It was significant of the pride of the family that her 
brother. Lord Carsdale, never once occurred to her mind. 
She would just as soon have suspected him of forgery as 
of a flirtation with her mother’s companion. So that Lady 
Gertrude passed on, anxious and disturbed, while Ailie 
went to her room, and, to her wonder, found the door 
open again ! This time she remembered to have closed it, 
so that some one must have turned the handle and have 
entered ; but there was nothing disturbed — there was no 
sound, no sign of any one having been there. 

“ It was a servant, perhaps,” she said to herself, “with 
a message from the countess. If anything is said about 
it, I can easily account for having been away from my 
room and, in the pressure of other thoughts, she for- 
got that. 

Now she put out the lamp. She made no pretense of 
going to sleep ; she could not rest with that beating heart 
and throbbing pulse. Her face burned like fire where he 
had kissed her, and her hands were cold as the white 
hands of the dead. She sat by the window, watching the 
darkness, the soft, gray shadows that began to come with 
the morning, the ^oft, sweet mists, that seemed to cling 
lovingly to flower and tree ; to watch the gray, noiseless 
shadows of the night, as one by one they disappeared and 
gave place to the lovely, laughing light of morning. 

Her life was in her hands, and not hers alone, but the 
life of two others ; the two paths were clear enough before 
her. She did not doubt for one moment the possibility of 


364 


^*THAT SEALS MY FATE r 


his obtaining the separation; she had always heard that 
money could do anything — that, in reality, there was one 
law for the rich and one for the poor. She wasted no 
time in trying to think whether she could, in the eyes of 
the law, cease to be his wife; all she thought of was, 
should she give her consent.? Her first impulse was natur- 
ally to refuse, to cling to him, to tighten her hold of him, 
to refuse to be parted from him, to refuse to yield him to 
another. He was her own husband, she said ; Heaven 
had given him to her, and if she yielded, he would marry 
this beautiful woman whom he loved, and then he would 
think no more of her. She pictured to herself the long 
years, stretching out far and wide, all dull, dark, and 
dreary, while her husband was happy in another love. She 
bit her lips, she clenched the little white hands — it was not 
to be borne, not to be thought of. Then, if she refused — 
ah ! what was the alternative ? He would not make his 
marriage known, nor, after all that she had heard, did she 
wish him to do so ; the result would be nothing but family 
disunion and misery. He would go abroad ; she would, 
perhaps, spend years and years without ever seeing him ; 
and he would grow to hate her in time because she stood 
between him and the, one great happiness of his life. 

Of the right or wrong she could not judge; she was 
willing to leave that in wiser hands — all that she had to 
concern herself with was, should she give her consent? 
Through long hours she sat there debating, unable to 
make up her mind, unable to decide, weeping bitter tears 
of passionate despair, then praying with the simple faith 
of a child. 

Once she had honestly believed that nothing could dis- 
solve the tie of marriage, that no earthly power could part 
those who, before Heaven, were joined ; but wiser heads 


T/fAr SEALS MY FATE r 


365 . 

than hers had decided “Yes” — had agreed that men could 
step in and, for certain reasons, dissolve this tie. Whether 
her marriage was one for which such dissolution were pos- 
sible or not, did not matter to her ; she had but to decide 
whether or no she was willing to consent to it. 

Then, when the morning sun was shining full and warm 
in the blue heavens, she rose from her seat; her face was 
pale, and she shuddered like one seized with cold. She 
went to her little writing-table, and taking a piece of paper, 
she wrote rapidly for some minutes. 

“That is my answer, ” she said to herself; “that seals 
my fate.” 

She looked at it for some minutes in silence, then kissed 
it, placed it in an envelope ready to give to Lord Carsdale. 

It was over then and done ; there was no further inde- 
cision, no further struggle. She lay down and fell into the 
deep sleep of exhaustion ; she slept until Lady Waldrove’s 
maid rapped at the door and said the countess was waiting 
for her. Alice roused herself ; she hastened to change her 
evening-dress, and remove, as far as she could, all trace of 
fatigue ; then she went to Lady Waldrove’s room. 

The old routine of duties awaited her ; she had to read 
page after page of fashionable correspondence, to mark 
what letters required answering, and those that were not 
worthy of it. She went through her work mechanically, 
not with her usual cheerful, brightness. Once Lady Wal- 
drove noticed her white face and heavy eyes, and asked if 
she were well. Alice said she was well, but tired ; and the 
countess thought, in her own mind, that salaried depend- 
ents had no right to be- tired. Alice was thinking how she 
could see Lord Carsdale to give him the note ; as a rule, 
she met him three or four times every day. She seldom 


^^THAT SEALS MY FATE^ 


366 

saw him at luncheon, always at dinner, and she had not 
foreseen the least difficulty in giving him the note. 

“There will be no need for keeping him twenty-four 
hours in suspense,” she said to herself; “I will give him 
my answer as soon as I see him. ” 

During the morning she was free at interv’als, and could 
have seen him had he been in the house. She went to the 
library, the dining-room, the morning-room, the picture- 
gallery; but there was no trace of him. Then she heard 
by accident that he had gone out with the earl, and was 
not expected to return before dinner-time. 

“I shall see him at dinner,” she thought; but several 
fresh visitors made their appearance, and she hardly caught 
one glimpse of him. She tried to get near him as the 
long procession of guests passed to the dining-room, but 
it was impossible. During dinner he sat by Lady Ethel ; 
but Ailie saw that he was pale and absent-minded — that he 
said little, but looked very sad. 

“If the worst comes to the worst,” she thought, “I 
can but follow him to the grounds when he goes out tnis 
evening;” but again, as fortune would most cruelly have 
it, there came on a terrible storm of thunder and rain, so 
that no one could go out of doors. Still Ailie was not 
disturbed. Living in the same house, it was absurd to 
believe that she would have any real difficulty in giving 
him a note — quite absurd. 

The evening was passing; the party assembled in the 
large drawing-room was a very brilliant one; there was 
music, cards, songs — and more than once Ailie saw her 
husband’s eyes fixed on her with an inquiring glance, as 
though he would fain ask what was the answer. 

She tried time after time to get near him-^to find some 
little excuse for speaking to him ; but it was all in vain, 




''THAT SEALS MY FATEH 


367 


she could not Tears of disappointment filled her eyes. 
On other evenings the countess had always sent her here 
and there with messages to Lord Carsdale and to the dif- 
ferent guests, but to-night Lady Waldrove had nothing to 
say ; she was not in the very best of humors. Lady Ethel 
had that day received an invitation from the Duchess of 
Harrington, and thought of accepting it. Lady Waldrove 
was much annoyed. Why could not her son make up his 
mind, and ask the beautiful heiress to be his wife.? 

“Children are a terrible anxiety,” said the worldly 
mother to herself; “a terrible anxiety.” 

So she sat silent and thoughtful among her guests, send- 
ing no messages, listening to nothing except her own hur- 
ried, anxious thoughts ; while the white, beautiful face by 
her side grew every moment more haggard. Time was 
passing so quickly, and as yet she had no chance of giving 
him the note. He came up to his mother, by whose side 
she was sitting, and spoke to her; but the countess an- 
swered him half angrily ; she was so bitterly disappointed ; 
she had hoped so eagerly that her son would marry the 
beautiful Lady Ethel. For the first time in her life, she 
was inclined to be angry with him. 

As he was speaking, Ailie saw that his eyes were fixed 
on her — that they almost asked the question, “Had she 
her answer .?” 

Then there came one moment, one half moment, while 
the countess was speaking to some one else, during which 
Ailie heard him say : 

“Do not forget ; let me have your answer to-night.” 

She could not tell him it was there ready for him ; she 
could not say, “ I have been carrying this note about all 
day, and can find no chance of giving it to you ;” and all 


77 /^ 7 : SEALS MY FATET 


368 

that he read in her eyes was a dim, dull, anxious look that 
told him nothing. 

It seemed to Ailie that her very faculty of invention was 
paralyzed that evening. She had read stories wherein 
notes, such as* she had written, were passed even in the 
most delicate and dangerous situations. What was to pre- 
vent her from doing something of the kind ? Supposing 
that she dropped it on the floor and raised it, pretending 
to think it his — and then, suppose the countess should 
intercept it, and, thinking it was her son s, read it? Sup- 
pose she took a book and put it between the leaves, and 
then passed the book to him? She might do that; but 
then, in a brilliantly-lighted drawing-room like that, it was 
not so easy as it seemed. She, Lady Waldrove’s com- 
panion, was not supposed to be on such intimate terms 
with Lord Carsdale as to speak to him when she would. 

She roused herself suddenly to a sense of what was 
going on near her. 

“My dear Miss Derwent,” the countess was saying, in 
the most exasperated tone, “would you be kind enough 
to tell me what you mean by that fixed stare at nothing? 
I have told you five times that I am tired. I want you to 
find the third volume of the ‘ Mill on the Floss," and bring 
it to my room.” 

And Ailie, as she followed the countess, wondered how 
she could manage to give her husband a message that 
night 


WATCHED, 


369 


CHAPTER LV. 

WATCHED. 

Ailie could almost have cried aloud, it seemed so unfor- 
tunate, so hard to bear — that to-night, of all nights, she 
should not have one minute to call her own — everything 
was against her. Lady Waldrove held quite a levee in her 
room. Lady Ethel had fancied that she seemed out of 
spirits, and had come to see why it was. Lady Gertrude 
thought that she was not quite well. Lady Legard had 
fancied she looked tired. One after another- they came in, 
staid some little time, and went away again, while Ailie sat 
silent, longing to be away, if only for three minutes, yet 
unable to leave. 

Lady Waldrove turned to her at last with a sigh of 
relief. 

“They are all gone. Miss Derwent; visitors generally 
come when one cares least for them. Now, have you the 
third volume.? The worst of saying good-night to so many 
people is that it makes one feel so wide awake.” 

“A nice prospect for me,” thought Ailie. 

She began to read ; the clock struck eleven, then twelve, 
before the countess dismissed her; she would, in all prob- 
ability, have kept her there much longer but that Ailie 
came to the end of the volume ; then she looked so tired, 
and her voice had grown so weak, that Lady Waldrove 
told her she might go. At last she was free, but it was 
after midnight. She still had the little note concealed in 
her dress. Where was her husband, and how was she to 
give it to him ? 

She stood for a few minutes on the stairs, late as it was. 


370 


WATCHED. 


She knew from the sound of voices that the gentlemen 
were, some of them, in the billiard-room, some in the 
smoking-room. How should she deliver that note ? She 
had promised him her answer in twenty-four hours ; his 
eyes had asked her for it plainly as any eyes could speak. 
She must give it to him ; it was useless for her to try to go 
to her room and sleep ; she could not sleep again until she 
had kept her promise to him, and had given him the note. 
The part of the staircase and corridor where she stood was 
all in darkness. She waited there some time. The great 
house was so dark and so silent, save for the distant sound 
of voices coming from the smoking-room. As she stood 
there, shrouded in darkness, she heard the quick sound of 
a horse’s gallop outside, followed by a loud peal at the hall 
door-bell ; she heard the hurried steps of the servants as 
tt'.ey went to open it, then some hasty words in a stranger’s 
voice; she heard some one say: “Lord Carsdale is in 
the smoking-room.” It seemed to her that they had 
fetched him. There was an interval of silence, then the 
door closed again. She heard the sound of the horse’s 
quick gallop, the lights disappeared, and dim, dead silence 
followed. 

The party in the smoking-room broke up. She heard 
the gentlemen go to their rooms ; profound silence and 
profound darkness reigned around. Then she saw Lord 
Carsdale at the other end of the corridor ; he was passing 
along to his own room ; he held a taper in his hand, and 
by its light she saw that he was pale and care-worn. She 
had not time even to utter his name, he passed along so 
quickly ; and, even had she time, she dared not raise her 
voice in that vast, silent house. 

“He is miserable because he has not my answer,” she 
said, and her gentle, generous heart ached for him. 


IVA TCHED. 


371 - 


She did not guess that the loud ring she had heard and 
the subsequent concussion was the consequence of the 
arrival of a telegraphic message for Lord Carsdale, request- 
ing his immediate attend.ance at the Horse Guards ; and, 
owing to a violent thunder-storm which had destroyed 
some of the electric wires, that message had been delayed 
until late at night Lord Carsdale had not been very well 
pleased at receiving it; affairs were at such a crisis at 
Roseneath that he did not care to leave them ; but it was 
a case of duty, and there was nothing for it but instant 
obedience. 

“What do you suppose it is about?” the earl asked of 
his son. 

“I cannot tell, sir. Perhaps those tiresome Indians 
have mutinied again, and my regiment may be ordered to 
India ; or it is just possible that I have to return to Gibral- 
tar, or it may be of less consequence than that. I shall 
leave here at five in the morning, sir, and take the six 
o’clock train to town, then I can be at the Horse Guards 
the first thing. I will ask you to make my adieux to my 
mother and the ladies. ” 

The earl and his son shook hands most cordially — there 
was a warm, deep attachment between them ; but Lord 
Carsdale’s face was clouded as he passed through the long 
corridor — it did not suit him to leave home just then — he 
was leaving everything so very unsettled; he had not re- 
ceived Ailie’s answer — he did not know whether Lady 
Ethel intended to accept the duchess’ invitation ; every- 
thing was in disorder. 

He passed on to his room, never even dreaming of the 
anxious face and anxious heart so near him. Then Ailie 
said to herself there was but one resource — she must follow 
him. She could not keep him in suspense any longer, the 


372 


WATCHED. 


morrow might be just like to-day; it was more than possi- 
ble she might try again the next twenty-four hours as she 
had tried the last without success. There could be no 
harm, surely, in her going to his room door to give him 
that note. In the first place it was quite certain that no 
one would see her ; it was perfectly safe ; every one in the 
house was asleep, or, at least, in their rooms. She knew 
Lord Carsdale’s room, although she had never entered it ; 
it was close to Lady Waldrove’s ; if she followed him now 
quickly she should have time to give him the note before 
he closed the door, and then — ah, well ! — then she knew 
that he would sleep all the more soundly for reading what 
she had written. 

That was all the thought that she gave to the matter. 
She went swiftly down the broad corridor, her light foot- 
steps made no sound ; she passed Lady Waldrove s room — 
all there was profound peace and stillness. Then she went 
on ; she saw a tiny ray of light from beneath the door of 
Lord Carsdale’s room — it was fastened — she was too late ! 

What should she do now.? She dare not rap— she could 
not call him ; it seemed to her that there was a malicious 
fate at work to prevent her from giving him the note. 
The only resource was to turn the handle very gently ; this 
she did once or twice without attracting his attention. 
She did it again, more quickly, more hurriedly, and then 
she heard him say : 

“Who is there.?” 

She did not answer, because she dared not. She 
moved the handle cautiously again. Then Lord Carsdale 
quickly opened the door and looked out into the darkness. 
At first he did not see her, he looked away; then, as the 
darkness grew less intense, he saw the outline of the pale. 


WATCHED, 


373 

beautiful, passionate face he knew so well. To do him 
justice, he was startled and half shocked. 

‘ ‘ Ailie, ’ he said, ‘ ‘ in Heaven’s name, what has brought 
you here?” 

She raised her pure, fair face to his. 

“ I have come to bring you my answer,” she said. “I 
have tried all day to give you this note, and I could not.” 

“My poor child,” he said, gently, “you should not 
have come here.” 

“No one has seen me, no one knows,” she replied; 
“and I would not have come, but that I knew you were 
so anxious over this answer; your eyes asked me for it 
this evening; but I could not tell you, I had not one 
moment. ” 

She was standing in the shadow of the door-way, and 
these \^ords had passed in the most hurried whisper. She 
took the little note from her dress and gave it to him. He 
was so agitated at seeing her, and she was so intently 
watching his face, that neither pf them heard the slow 
opening of Ae door close to them and a cautious footstep. 

♦ ‘This is my answer,” said Ailie; “and may Heaven 
bless you, my love — my love, I shall never repent.” 

He took the paper from her hands. 

“Good-night, Ailie,” he said, quickly; “thank you 
for bringing me this. But, child, it was a terrible risk. 
Hasten back to your room, and pray Heaven that no one 
sees you.” 

He would not detain her even while he told her that he 
was going away in the morning; he was frightened and 
anxious for her sake — it was a terrible risk to have run ; it 
showed her utter innocence, her simple, child-like faith, 
her simple guilelessness; but, all the same, he wished that 
she had not done it. 


374 


WATCHED. 


‘‘Good-night,” he repeated. “Oh, hasten, Ailie, for 
your own sake, child. ” 

He stood at the door and watched her while she hast- 
ened away through the thick gloom. There was no light, 
no sound, no stir, no movement ; and, as he fastened his 
door again, he said to himself that it was a most fortunate 
escape. 

He went to the lamp and opened the folded paper ; he 
saw on it marks of tears — great blots where the hot tears 
had fallen. 

“Poor child!” he said again to himself, “I wonder 
what she has said to me ?” 

He kept the little note one or two minutes unopened in 
his hand. Did she consent, or did she not.? Poor Ailie ! 
what sorrow his love had brought her. Then he read, 
written in a trembling hand : 

“ It would have been sweet and easy to die for you — it is 
harder to live and give you up; but, for your sake, and 
because 1 love you so well, I will even do that. I consent 
to what you ask me ; but, if you wish me well, do not ask 
me to take your money when you refuse to give me your 
love. When we are parted, it must be altogether, and I 
will work — I will take nothing from you. So, Heaven 
bless you, and good-by, my lost love — my own love, my 
dead love, good-by.” 

He read the simple, loving words through a mist ot 
tears. 

“She is the noblest woman in all the world,” he said ; 
“there is no other so brave, so generous, so good.” 

Then he placed the little note aside — so far his mind was 
at rest. Once more he opened the door and looked 
through the thick gloom; there was no sign, no sound. 
Ailie had evidently reached her own room in safetv, and 


A STARTLING ACCUSATION 


375 


neither he nor she had the least idea that Lady Gertrude 
had watched the close of their interview. It was the sound 
of her brother s voice that had attracted her attention, and 
opening the door very gently, she was just in time to see 
Ailie standing at the door of her brother’s room, and heard 
their last good-night 


CHAPTER LVI. 

A STARTLING ACCUSATION. 

Lord Carsdale could not say for certain whether he slept 
the better for that little note or not He found himself 
once or twice, during the night, wondering what he should 
have done had Ailie decided otherwise; he often found 
himself thinking of her, dwelling on the pale, passionate 
beauty of her face, recalling her passionate words, her 
great and. wonderful love for himself; recalling every ten- 
der phrase, and he always finished his reverie by thinking 
it is only once in a life-time that a man is loved after that 
fashion ; he did not know whether he wished for this sep- 
aration, as he had once wished for it — with all his heart ; 
he did not know whether he should be overwhelmed with 
grief if he found out that no such separation could legally 
be. But the morning sun was shining in his room ; he 
had to go. There was no more time for thought just 
now — there was not even time for him to write one word 
to Ailie. Strange to say, it was of her that he thought the 
most. Lady Ethel would receive his courteous message of 
adieux through the earl, but Ailie would not have one 


376 


A STARTLING ACCUSATION. 


word ; it would seem hard and unkind after her loving 
little letter to him, yet he could not think of any way in 
which he could possibly send her a note or a message. 

“I must explain it to her when I return,’’ he said. 

Then it struck five ; the valet and groom were both in 
attendance ; there was not another moment to be lost if he 
intended going by the six o’clock train. 

“Poor Ailie!” were his last words as he quitted the 
house. “I wish that I had time to write one word to her.” 

. Poor Ailie ! was his last thought as he looked up at the 
grand old walls of the grand house, and then he galloped 
away in the morning sunshine, without one thought of 
what was to happen later on, while Ailie slept, tTirough 
exhaustion — it was so late when she reached her room, 
and she had suffered so much anxiety. She slept until 
late in the morning. When at last she woke, and saw 
from her watch that it was nearly nine, she was frightened. 
How was it that no one had been to call her.? She did 
not remember that such a thing had ever happened before. 
Why had the countess not rent for her? She was perplexed. 
When she opened the door of her room Lady Gertrude’s 
maid was there. 

“Just going to rap,” she said, and the message that she 
had brought was: “Lady Waldrove would not require 
Miss Derwent that morning.” 

Ailie was more perplexed still. It might be that the 
countess, seeing how tired she was last night, had taken 
compassion on her. 

“ Does Lady Waldrove think that I am ill?” she asked. 

And the only answer was a very indifferent “ I do not 
know.” 

“ Is Lady Waldrove ill herself?” she asked, again. 


A STARTLING ACC USA 7 ION 


377 

Not at all/’ replied the maid ; “but she wished you to 
wait until she sent for you.” 

It was very strange; but Ailie was not distressed over it. 
The countess had all kinds of whims and caprices. True, 
she had never seemed to take a fantastic aversion to her, as 
she had done to many others; but it was likely she might 
do so. There was nothing for it but to wait patiently. 

She soon forgot all about the countess and her caprices 
in thinking about her husband and what he would say 
about her letter. 

“ He will not be ray husband much longer,” she said to 
herself. 

Then one of the maids to whom she had been very kind 
came in to ask her to write a letter for her. From this 
maid she heard that Lord Carsdale had left the Abbey at 
five that morning, to take the six o’clock train to London. 

“There was nothing said of his going to London last 
night, was there?” asked Ailie, too much startled to reflect 
that she had no right to discuss his movements. 

“None,” was the answer; neither the grooms nor the 
valet knew anything of it until they were called early in 
the morning. 

Ailie could put but one interpretation on it; she be- 
lieved that he was so delighted over her letter that he had 
no patience to wait another hour — that the very moment 
he had received her consent he had made up his mind to 
hurry to town and get the opinion he was so anxious to 
have. She said to herself that she was foolish to feel ag- 
grieved — that she might have known it would be so. But 
that did not prevent her from feeling most intensely grieved. 

It pained her keenly to think that he should have been 
in such a hurry to be freed from her — that, after receiving 
her answer, he had not waited above three or four hours. 


378 


A STARTLING ACCUSATION. 


In her simple ignorance of all law, she never thought it 
possible that the separation could not take place. She was 
thinking what she would do when he had freed himself 
from her, and she was left alone ; she would never live on 
money of his — never, let come what might, not if she died 
of hunger; nor would she ever go back home. She would 
go to Germany — to Heisengen; they had liked her very 
well there, and she might teach English and French. She 
would never touch his money ; never look in his face or 
listen to his voice again. She could live out the little that 
remained of her life in Germany just as well as in England, 
and there would be no one there to trouble her while she 
faded away and died. 

Her reverie was interrupted. Lady Gertrude opened the 
door of her room and stood suddenly before her. She 
entered without the preliminary of rapping, and that sur- 
prised Ailie. She was more startled still when she looked 
at the face of the earl’s daughter ; all the scorn, the con- 
tempt, the dislike, the loathing that could be expressed in 
a human countenance, was expressed in hers. Her black 
morning dress swept the ground ; jewels shone on her 
white fingers; her dark, haughty head was crowned with 
masses of her dark, shining hair. She stood, tall and 
stately, looking down on Ailie, very much as a queen 
might have looked on a slave. 

“It is quite against my own will that I am here. Miss 
Derwent,” she said. “I would not have come but for my 
mother’s sake. You will not be surprised to hear that your 
atrocious conduct has made her very ill indeed. ” 

“ My what.?” said Ailie, looking up in wonder, and Lady 
Gertrude saw that the wonder was not feigned. 

“I repeat it,” she said; “your atrocious conduct! — 


A STARTLING ACC USA 7 /ON 


379 

conduct which has brought disgrace on Roseneath such as 
was never known before !” 

“ Perhaps/’ said Ailie, gently, “you will be kind enough 
to explain, Lady Gertrude. I declare to you that I do not 
understand you.” 

“You will not understand !” was the angry retort. “You 
know well enough what I mean. Why do you stand there 
trying to look innocent and surprised.? You ought rather 
to fall on your knees and beg my pardon — mine and my 
mother’s !” 

“Lady Gertrude, what have I done?” asked Ailie. 

“What, indeed! you — you whited sepulcher! You 
have never imposed upon me, Ailie Derwent, never ! 
When I see one of your type — dove eyes, meek, fair- 
haired, and gentle, I say to myself there is a whited 
sepulcher !” 

“It seems to me very unjust. I did not make the color 
of my hair or my eyes. Lady Gertrude, nor do I know 
what I have done to annoy you. ” 

She turned away, bewildered ; but Lady Gertrude spoke 
even more angrily. 

“You need not add insolence to your wickedness,” she 
said. “I was quite unwilling to speak to you. I think 
that any good and modest woman would be disgraced by 
any association with you. I told my mother that it was for 
her sake, and her sake alone, that I would consent to ex- 
change one word with you, and after this once — never 
again. ” 

“Once more. Lady Gertrude, will you tell me what I 
have done ?” 

She had forgotten her little excursion of the night be- 
fore; it never once occurred to her; and she tried in vain 
to think what Lady Gertrude could mean. 


380 


A STARTLING ACC C/SAT/ON. 


“You know what you have done,’’ said the earl’s 
daughter, angrily. 

“ I do not,” replied Ailie, calmly. 

“You are quite shameless,” she cried, “for one so 
young; quite shameless. I do not convict you on any 
testimony except my own. I believe that which my own 
eyes have seen, and my own ears have heard — nothing else. 
I take no one’s word. ” 

“ If you will but tell me,” said Ailie. 

“I blush to repeat it,” said Lady Gertrude. “You 
force the words from me. If you had any good taste, any 
sense of right, any sense of honor left, you would not ask 
me to utter words from which my whole soul revolts.” 

And Ailie, looking at the haughty face, saw that she was 
speaking the truth. 

“I would save you the disgrace. Lady Gertrude, if I 
could,” she said. “I would tell my crime to you, instead 
of you to me, if I knew it.” 

“You are hardened,” said Lady Gertrude. “So hard- 
ened that if ever I had felt the least pity for you, I feel 
none now. I will tell you your crime. I saw you with 
my own eyes come from my brother’s room after midnight 
last night I saw you, and heard you speak. Do you 
deny that.?” 

Slowly enough she uttered the words, and each word had 
gone like the pain of a sharp sword through Aide’s heart 
Her face had grown white as the face of a dead woman ; 
her white lips trembling. She tried to speak, but no sound 
came from them ; her voice died away on them. Good 
Heaven ! that so terrible a thing had happened. What 
could she say .? 

“Do you deny it.?” asked Lady Gertrude, and it was 
pitiful to see how the white lips opened without a sound. 



“Once more,” continued the clear, pitiless voice, “I 
saw you wandering about the house after midnight — after 
every one else had gone to rest — then I suspected you. I 
have made inquiries since, and I find that twice my 
mothers maid has gone to your room and has found it 
empty after every one had believed that you, like the rest, 
had gone to bed. I find that twice you have been seen in 
the grounds at night, and each time with a gentleman; 
you have been observed to creep back into the house when 
every one else was asleep. I ask you can you deny these 
things? You do not speak. You do not answer. I am 
glad, at least, that you have the grace to remain silent. I 
should not have troubled Lady Waldrove with the story of 
your folly, but that I had no power to dismiss you myself. 
I will see if it be convenient for Lady Waldrove to receive 
you now. Have you anything to say to me before I go?/ 
Nothing. The white face drooped and the white lips 
closed ; from them came no sound 1 


CHAPTER LVII. 

“I WILL SUFFER FOR HIM.” 

Lady Gertrude quitted the room, closing the door be* 
hind her. She was very indignant, very angry, and very 
much mortified. Like the countess, she had fixed all her 
hopes on seeing Lord Carsdale marry Lady Ethel, and 
now to find that he was carrying on a low intrigue with her 
mother's companion — it was too much! She had never 
been so mortified in her life. After that little scene in the 
corridor — when, opening her door, she had distinctly seen 


«/ WILL SUFFER FOR HIMI' 


382 

Ailie leave her brother’s room, had plainly heard his half- 
whispered, hasty * ‘ good-night ” — after that she had not 
slept. 

To do her justice, she was really distressed — distressed 
first of all for her brother, in whom she had always 
had the most implicit faith; grieved for Lady Ethel, 
who loved him she was sure ; and she was also grieved for 
Ailie. Lady Gertrude was very proud, very haughty, very 
exclusive, but she was not hard of heart ; she felt sincerely 
grieved that the girl had, as she believed, lost herself — 
heartily sorry that she had fallen a victim to her own folly. 
She was wide awake the remainder of the night, thinking 
it over; the more she thought the more completely was 
she puzzled ; she could not recall one instance in which 
she had seen her brother and Ailie Derwent talking to- 
gether. They had been the greatest strangers ; they had 
not even seemed to take the ordinary interest of strangers 
in each other; the only conclusion that she could draw 
from this was that they had adopted this reserve as a kind 
of mask, behind the shield of which they carried on an 
intrigue. 

Lady Gertrude, though proud and haughty, was a good 
woman, and she was unfeignedly sorry for Ailie. Then, 
when she began in the morning to make inquiries, she 
found Lady Waldrove’s maid had already some very well- 
founded suspicions. Then she heard the story of how the 
maid had twice at night found Miss Derwent's room 
empty, how she had twice seen her stealing into the house, 
and how one of the men-servants had seen her in the 
grounds with a gentleman. When questioned as to why 
they had not told these stories before, their answer was that 
they had not wished to do Miss Derwent any harm. 

Then Lady Gertrude felt that Miss Derwent must not 


“/ WILL SUFFER FOR HIM^ 


3'J 


remain at Roseneath twenty-four hours longer. She would 
have dismissed her without speaking of her faults to the 
countess, had she dared ; but, in her way, Lady Waldrove 
liked her young companion, and would have resented any 
interference with her. Lady Gertrude told her story gently 
as she could, but the countess was highly indignant. Was 
it possible that this story could be true — that her son, Lord 
Carsdale, the heir of Roseneath, had so far forgotten him- 
self as to enter into an intrigue of any kind with her com- 
panion 

“Are you quite sure that you have not dreamed this, 
Gertrude?” she asked, sharply. “I must confess it seems 
far more like a dream than a reality to me.” 

“I saw and heard it, mamma,” was the straightforward 
reply ; “I can add no more. ” 

Could it be possible. Lady Waldrove asked herself, that 
her son had formed any kind of infatuation for this Ailie 
Derwent, and that that prevented him from making Lady 
Ethel his wife? “I should go mad if that has happened !” 
cried the countess. But no, she comforted herself, that 
was impossible. Brought up as he had been. Lord Cars- 
dale was not likely to make such a terrible mistake. Then 
the whole force of her anger and indignation fell upon 
Ailie Derwent. That she should dare to try to inveigle the 
heir of Roseneath — that she should dare to get up any 
kind of intrigue with him — it was too audacious. 

“That girl shall suffer for it!” she said. And Lady 
Gertrude answered : 

“It seems to me, mamma, Lord Carsdale deserves pun- 
ishment, not his victim.” 

“You do not know of what you are speaking, Ger- 
trude I” cried the countess. “A woman of your age 
ought to know better. ” 


3^4 


‘/ WILL SUFFER FOR HIMI^ 


object to being called a woman, mamma,” said 
Lady Gertrude, proudly. “I will help you all I can, but 
you must not vent your annoyance upon me. The girl 
must go, and go at once. I only hope that Ethel will hear 
nothing of it. ” 

*‘She is not likely to hear,” said the countess. “Surely 
you arid I can keep a secret, Gertrude ; for her own sake, 
Ailie Derwent will be silent. Bring the girl here — let me 
speak to her while I am in the mood. Strange to say 
now, I always liked that girl ; she seemed so gentle and 
good.” 


“ I never did like her very much,” said Lady Gertrude ; 
“she gave me the impression of always playing a part. I 
^nnot tell how, or why. ” 

9 ’'^hen Lady Gertrude, with a profound feeling of pity in 
i ^ heart, went to summon Ailie to her mother’s presence. 
\ilie neither moved nor stirre»i. It seemed to the 
(appy girl that the troubles of her life had now reached 
leir* climax. Nothing could be worse — nothing more 
Pferrible. She had gone with the simple innocence of a 
chijd to her husband’s room ; it had not even occurred to 
her that the faintest shadow of suspicion could rest upon 
her -for so doing. She had gone to give him the note, but 
the fact that seemed to her so simple, sounded terrible as a 
sin in the mouth of Lady Gertrude. 


^What was she to do? If she cleared herself at all, she 
must reveal the secret of her marriage, and that she 
had promised him never to do — never — let the secrecy cost 
her what it might. She clenched her hands until great red 
marks came into the white, tender skin ; she cried aloud 
in her agony; but there was no escape — no hope — no 
release. Either she must keep his secret, and so let them 


“/ WILL SUFFER FOR HfMI* 


385 


think what evil they would of her, or — she must betray 
him. She could never betray him ! 

“Oh, my love, my love I" cried the poor girl, “you 
have cost me dear. ” 

She could not betray him. They must brand her as all 
that was most infamous and vile; they must turn her from 
the doors, if they would ; they must heap insults on her. 
She would still be true to him. 

“Patient Griselda would never have betrayed her hus- 
band,” she said. “I will never betray mine. I love him 
well enough to die for him. I love him well enough 
to give him up for his own happiness to another. Surely, 
I may suffer for him.” 

Yes, she would suffer for him. True, they would take 
from her her fair fame, and every good woman din 
to that. Well, it would be the last sacrifice she h 
to make for him, the last proof she could give him of he 
superabundant love. She would bear it all in silence, an 
not even by a look would she betray him. 

“I can suffer,” she said to herself. “I have learned to 


suffer.” 

Then she heard Lady Gertrudes footsteps, and sh^ 
nerved herself to meet her fate. 

“Lady Waldrove will see you now,” said Lady Ger- 
trude. 

And then the earl’s proud daughter half relented as she 
looked at the beautiful white face ; in some vague way 
it did not seem like the face of a guilty woman, it was so 
fair, so pure, so clear. She stood quite still and looked at 
her. 

“ Miss Derv/ent,” she said, “do you deny the charge I 
have made against you 

“No, Lady Gertrude, I do not,” was the low reply. 


386 


“/ WILL SUFFER FOR HIMI^ 


“Can you give me any explanation of the circum- 
stances? Can you tell me anything which will extenuate 
them r 

Could she? Ailie could have smiled in bitter sarcasm at 
such a question. Could she? Yes; she might have 
replied that she was his wife, and had simply gone to 
the door of his room to give him a note, in which, so far 
as lay in her power, she released him from her forever ; but 
she did not She answered, very quietly : 

“ I have nothing to say. Lady Gertrude and in some 
vague but uncertain way there came to the earl’s daughter 
a conviction she could not explain of the girl’s innocence. 
Appearances, her own silence, everything was against her, 
except this certain something which stole into Lady Ger- 
trude’s heart Still she said nothing. She had to deal 
with facts, not convictions, and the facts were against her. 

In silence they went down the long corridor, and in 
silence they entered Lady Waldrove’s room. 

She sat erect and stately, ready to receive them. 

“Close the door, Gertrude,” she said. “Pray do not 
let this shameful story be heard in the house. Close the 
door.” 

Lady Gertrude fastened the door. 

A- Then the countess turned fiercely to Ailie. 

“ What have you to say for yourself?” she asked. 

And the answer, given in a low tone, was “ Nothing.” 

“I should say not. I have heard of many things in my 
life, but never of anything so utterly infamous as this. 
How did you dare to attempt to draw my son into — into — 
such an intrigue as this?” 

No answer; and the girl’s silence seemed to enrage 
Lady Wald rove. 

“I know all about it,” she said. “ Looking innocent 


“/ WILL SUFFER FOR HIM. 


387 

will not impose upon me. I have heard it all. You have 
been seen to follow my son to the grounds, and last night 
you were seen coming from his room. I — I make no 
comment. No virtuous woman could on such a state of 
things. 

She paused, hoping for a reply. None came. 

She continued : 

If I had liked you less, I should have cared less. But 
I have liked you very much, and have trusted you. You 
have basely deceived me. Some people, when anything of 
this kind occurs, blame the man and shield the girl. I do 
not. I know that young men will be young men to the 
end of the world ; and I know that every girl can take care 
of herself if she will. I know still more — that, my son is 
a gentleman, and that you must have thrown yourself 
in his way; you must have sought him — he would never 
seek you. Have you anything to say ?” 

The calm of the beautiful white face was unbroken. 
Over and over again, in her heart, Ailie was saying to 
herself : 

“God knows! God knows! I need not fear. God 
knows !” 

Aloud she said : 

“No, Lady Waldrove; not one word." 

“You did not delude yourself so far as to believe 
that my son intends to marry you, I hope. King Co- 
phetua and Lord Burleigh do not live in these days. You 
have not deluded yourself so far, I hope ?" 

“ I have not deluded myself at all. Lady Waldrove," was 
the gentle answer. 

“ I am indignant for my son's sake, ” said Lady Wal- 
drove. “It is simply horrible that a gentleman cannot 
come home even to his father’s house without being drawn 


“/ WILL NOT FORGET 


388 

into an affair of this kind. What is it you are saying, 
Gertrude ?” 

But Lady Gertrude’s answer opens our next chapter. 


CHAPTER LVIII. 

“l WILL NOT FORGET.” 

Will you repeat what you said, Lady Gertrude?” cried 
the countess, impatiently ; and the earl’s daughter looking 
up proudly, said : 

“ I suggest, mamma, that you should ask her if there 
is any possible explanation of the circumstances.” 

The look of scorn on Lady Waldrove’s face deepened. 

Any possible explanation, Gertrude. You are a lady, 
a perfect lady. What explanation can there be ?” 

“Ask her, mamma,” said Lady Gertrude, earnestly. 

And the countess, turning to Ailie, said : 

“You hear what my daughter foolishly suggests. Is 
there — can you give me any explanation — can you say any- 
thing that will lessen the odium of your fault ?” 

The white face was raised to hers, the pure, clear eyes 
had just then a shadow in them. They were filled with a 
strange light. 

“I have not one word. Lady Waldrove,” she replied, 
and there was a strange sadness in her voice, a strange 
sweetness that annoyed them. 

“ There, you see, Gertrude, the girl is utterly shameless. 
There is nothing to be said further, not one excuse to be 
made. Some girls would have pleaded some excuse or 
other. She says nothing.” 


“/ miL NOT forget:' 

r 


389 


'*No,” said Ailie^ “I have nothing to say, Lady Wal- 
drove. ” The couiiWte looked very angry. 

“It is the first timj^’* she said, “that anything like dis- 
grace has fallen on my Wuse.” 

Ailie shuddered at thV^yord, but she let it pass. She 
had gone through the bitterness of death already; what 
they chose to call disgrace mattered little ; it could not 
hurt her. Yet she shuddered and shivered under it, as 
one keenly feels a severe blow. . 

“ Have you nothing to say f asked thvirountess, angrily. 
“Have you neither excuse to. urge, parcfin to beg, wrong 
to atone for ” 

“ I do beg your pardon,” said Ailie, quietly, “ fo’r ^Jiverv,^ 
anxious moment that I have caused you.” 

The countess was gradually working herself up into a 
fever of rage. 

“I suppose,” she said, “it will be the old story; you 
will try to make what you can out of it. I know the whole 
shameless routine. You will, perhaps, take legal meas- 
ures. You will cover an ancient name with the blackest 
disgrace. You will bring all kinds of actions against my 
son. You will claim money. I know it all so well.” 

“ I shall do none of these things. Lady Waldrove,” said 
the girl, gently ; ‘ ‘ not one. ” 

“So much the better. I would not have such a dis- 
grace as this come to Lady Ethel’s ears for the whole 
world.” 

“It will not by any fault of mine,” said Ailie. 

“What guarantee have I of that?” asked the countess, 
with a sneer. 

“You have my word and my honor,” answered Ailie. 

“Unless you keep the first better than you kept the 
last, it will be but a poor guarantee,” said my lady. 


Aj 


390 


“/ WILL NOT FORGETN 


And again the girl shrank as though she had received a 
blow. 

‘ ‘ Mamma, ” cried Lady Gertrude, * ^ do not be too severe. 
I was cruel enough ; I said some hard things to her ; but 
to me — I cannot tell you why — but she does not look like 
a sinner. ” 

“ I do not know what you call a sinner,” said Lady 
Waldrove. “I know that she has by some base arts or 
foul means inveigled my son ; she has diverted his atten- 
tion from a beautiful, high-born, noble woman, who would 
most gladly, I believe, have made him one of the best of 
wives; she has marred his life for a time. I say she ought 
1-j Le punished, Gertrude. It is the fashion to cry out 
against the men who do wrong ; I say it is the fault of the 
women — such women as these, who lead men astray. 
What can she ever do to atone for the evil she has done 
my son 

Ailie stood facing' the window, and the light fell full on 
her face, and her face riveted the attention of both ladies. 
It was as white as death — clear, calm, and pure, with a 
strange light that seemed to shine through it — one could 
have fancied it the light of a grand or noble soul. There 
was sorrow — utmost despair; but the two ladies who 
watched her so anxiously and so keenly could see there no 
guilt, no confusion, no sin. 

“ It is of no use prolonging this scene, ” said the countess. 
“ I have learned my lesson ; no more companions for me. 
I have expressed my great disappointment in you, because 
I believed so implicitly in you ; I have expressed my great 
horror of your sin and folly; my disgust at your daring; 
my indignation that you should aspire even to look at my 
son ! Now, I have no more to say, except to dismiss you.” 


“/ WILL NOT FORGET. 


391 


They saw a slight shudder pass through the trembling 
frame, but she spoke no word in extenuation. 

“If I did my duty,” said the countess. “ I should dis- 
miss you before the whole household ; I should make you 
a warning ; I should load you with the ignominy and dis- 
grace that you deserve ; and if I could, I would send you 
to prison, there to expiate your sin. I cannot do that, 
and my daughter — I know not why — asks me to be merci- 
ful to you. You have no claim to mercy; still, because 
you are young, and I have liked you, I will be merciful.” 

Ailie murmured some few words, and the countess, 
thinking they were to thank her, looked just a trifle softer. 

“You ought to be made an example and a warning of,” 
she said ; “but I will think better of it You must leave 
to-day, but it shall be understood in the household that you 
are suddenly sent for — ^you are suddenly summoned ; there 
need not be any direct falsehood told, but in this case, it is 
really a charity to conceal the truth. You can pack your 
boxes ; let Lady Gertrude know at what time you are go- 
ing, and the carriage shall take you to the station. I know 
that I am guilty of great, almost unpardonable weakness ; 
but in exposing and punishing you, I expose and punish 
my beloved son. I do what I do under protest, always re- 
member that, not to save and screen you, but to save and 
screen my beloved son. ” 

“I quite understand,” said Ailie. “ I will not forget” 

“You have my permission to make it known in the 
house that you are going away to-day in consequence of 
news that you have received. I wish to say also, that re- 
membering it is I who send you away, I will give you half 
a years salary ; you do not deserve it, Ailie Derwent, but 
you shall never have it in your power to say that poverty 
drove you to sin. ” 


392 


“/ WILL NOT forget:^ 


^‘I should never say that in any case, Lady Waldrove, 
for I should never go to sin,” she replied. 

‘ ‘ I will undertake, in order to save my son — only to save 
my son, to give you, at any time you may write to me for 
help, to give it to you ; but it is on condition that you sign 
this paper.” 

“What paper. Lady Waldrove?” asked Ailie, wonder- 
ingly. 

Then the countess took a paper from the desk. 

“ I knew what I had to contend with,” she said, “and 
I have prepared accordingly. I will read this paper to 
you. ” 

The countess unfolded it with great state and majesty ; 
Lady Gertrude listened with sympathy, of which she was 
half afraid, half ashamed — Ailie with unmitigated wonder. 
Lady Waldrove began : 

“I, Ailie Derwent, in the presence of the Countess of 
Waldrove and Lady Gertrude Carsdale, state clearly and 
distinctly that I make no claim whatever upon Lord Cars- 
dale, and that I undertake nevgr to make one. ” 

“Will you sign this paper. Miss Derwent?” asked the 
countess. 

“No, Lady Waldrove, I would rather die. To sign it, 
would be to suppose myself capable of making such a 
claim, which I am not.” 

Lady Waldrove looked, as she felt, slightly surprised at 
the tone of the answer. 

“You have proved yourself capable of so much,” she 
said, “ I maybe pardoned lor presuming you to be capable 
of more. If you refuse that, you will not perhaps refuse 
to promise me that you will seek no communication what- 
ever with my son — that you will neither write to him, send 
messages to him, or ever see him again?” 


“/ WILL NOT forget:'* 


393 


‘‘That I will promise/’ said Ailie. 

‘ ‘ And how do I know that you will keep your prom- 
ise ?” asked the countess. 

“Because ,1 make it to you, Lady Waldrove, in the 
presence of Heaven. I swear to you that, from the time 
I cross your threshold until my heart grows cold in death, 
I will, neither by word or by action, seek your son.” 

“I suppose that I must be satisfied with that,” said 
Lady Waldrove. “ I should have been much better 
pleased if you had signed the paper. ” 

“Lady Waldrove,” said Ailie, humbly, “I wish that I 
might dare to ask a favor of you ?” 

“You may ask it,” said the countess, proudly. “ I am 
not unjust, I am not cruel. If it be anything that I can 
reasonably grant, I will do so.” 

“I want to ask you,” said Ailie, “if you will refrain 
from mentioning what happened to Madame Roubart? 
She is so very particular over her house, and very justly so. 
She was kind to me, and I should not like her to think that 
I have brought discredit upon her.” 

“I do not know,” said Lady Waldrove; “I almost 
think that for her own sake I am bound to tell madame. 
You may return to her, and impose on her again.” 

“ No,” replied Ailie, gently, “ there need be no fear. I 
shall never see Madame Roubart again. I would not re- 
turn to her for the whole world.” 

“lam glad,” said the countess, more graciously, “that 
you have the grace to be somewhat ashamed of yourself; 
that looks better. ” 

“Will you grant me that one favor. Lady Waldrove.?” 
’said Ailie. “ I have such grave reasons for asking it, and 
it is the only one I ask.” 

“Yes, I do not mind. It is not probable that Madame 


394 


'^VOC/ HAVE CRUELLY MISJUDGED ME^ 


Roubart will ever write to me about you, but if she does 
so, I will say simply you have left my employ, and that I 
know nothing of you/' 

“You will never tell her one word of this. Lady Wal- 
drove?" pleaded the girl; and the hard, worldly heart of 
the countess was touched by the pitiful voice and the piti- 
ful words. 

“No," she' replied; “I promise you, Ailie Derwent, 
that Madame Roubart shall never know one syllable of it. 
Now you had better go ; you will have time to get ready 
before noon. Lady Gertrude will see to your departure. 
Do not say good-by to me," she added, abruptly, and with 
a wave of her hand she quitted the room. 

Ailie neither moved nor spoke. She was like one lost 
in a trance or a dream. She did not even seem to notice 
that Lady Wald rove had gone away until Lady Gertrude, 
with infinite compassion shining in her face, touched her 
arm gently. 

“Miss Derwent," she said, “you have not much time 
to lose. I will send my maid to help you." 

And then Ailie went with trembling, uncertain steps to 
her room. 


CHAPTER LIX. 

“you HAVl CRUELLY MISJUDGED ME." 

Lady Gertrude Carsdale could not rest. No one could 
have been more indignant than she when she first dis- 
covered what she honestly believed to be the young girl’s 


*^YOU HAVE CRUELLY MISJUDGED MEI' 395 

guilt ; it was something astounding to her, as the notion 
of sin or shame always is to a refined woman, a well-bred 
woman. She was at first inclined to be very severe, and 
said cruel words to the pale, trembling girl ; but when she 
had been for some time with her — when she had watched 
her, had listened to her, had keenly criticised every look 
and every word — there came to her a certain conviction 
that the girl was quite innocent, although' she could not 
reconcile her innocence with the appearances that were so 
greatly against her. Her heart was touched with pity ; she 
followed Ailie to her room. 

“Have you a mother living. Miss Derwent.?" she asked, 
gently ; and Ailie answered : 

“Yes." 

“Then," she said, “ 1 advise you strongly to go to her, 
and tell her all about this unfortunate affair. Lady Wal- 
drove has been rather severe with you, but it is no wonder. 
I tell you honestly that my first feeling was one of intense 
anger against you, one of unmitigated disgust ; but that 
now I have the conviction that you could give us some ex- 
planation, if you would. Is it so. Miss Derwent.?" 

“ I cannot speak. Lady Gertrude; 1 cannot excuse my- 
self. I can only say, for every good and kindly thought 

that you have of me, may the great and merciful God bless 
1 

you ! 

For the first time since the first shock of the accusations 
brought against her, she put off the chain that hung round 
her neck — the slender, golden chain to which was attached 
the golden wedding-ring. The very touch of it seemed to 
comfort her; they were all mistaken, all wrong — here was 
her wedding-ring — she was his wife. The very thought 
gave her courage ; it nerved her with fresh strength, it gave 
her more fortitude for suflfering. She was his wife ! they 


396 ^^YOU HAVE CRUELLY MISJUDGED ME!' 


could insult, mistake, jeer her as they would, she was his 
wife, at least until the law separated them. 

“I advise you for the best,” said Lady Gertrude. ‘‘Go 
home to your mother ; she will be your best friend. And, 
Miss Derwent” — here the face of the earl’s daughter flushed 
hotly, a crimson flush that seemed to burn her face — 
“Miss Derwent, I am older than you, I know more of 
the world ; believe me, even if my brother. Lord Carsdale, 
has talked nonsense to you, you must not believe him. 
You have a fair, attractive face of your own, and, perhaps, 
admiring that, he has paid you a few idle compliments; 
but, Miss Derwent, you must not believe him. ” 

How she longed to vindicate him, to ciy' out that he had 
used no idle word to her, but that he had married her, so 
that never a stain should rest on her fair name ; yet she was 
compelled to listen to it all without one word of reply. 

“You ought to know and understand, at your age, that 
gentlemen are apt to lose their better senses when a pretty 
girl comes in their way; but, my dear Miss Derwent, God 
has given to that pretty girl the instinct, the sense, and the 
prudence to take care of herself. How you could have 
imagined that my brother meant anything, I cannot tell — 
you have such good sense in other things. ” 

“I cannot explain, Lady Gertrude; I can only thank 
you for thinking kindly of me.” 

“You must know,” protested Lady Gertrude, “that 
when a man of my brother’s rank seems to admire a girl 
in yours, he never means to make her his wife. It is not 
in the order of things that such unequal marriages should 
be made. It means — listen to me — it means simply her 
ruin.” 

“Let me say just one thing, Lady Gertrude,” pleaded 
Alice, “and that is, I honestly believe your brother. Lord 


“F 0^7 HAVE CRUELLY MISJUDGED ME^ 397 

Carsdale, to be one of the best and noblest men that ever 
lived. Will you always remember that instead of laying 
anything to his charge, as Lady Waldrove seems to think, 
instead of accusing, I make this declaration to you most 
solemnly, that I think him the best man who ever lived.” 

“I will remember,” said Lady Gertrude. 

Then she quitted the room, for one of the maids had 
come in to pack. Lady Gertrude was ill at ease ; then she 
reproached herself for being foolish. There could be no 
explanation of what she had seen ; there could be no loyal 
or sensible reason why the girl should have gone at that 
hour of night to her brother’s room. 

“My pity for her misleads me,” thought the earl’s 
daughter, “and yet she has not a guilty face.” 

She stood in the drawing-room when Lady Ethel en- 
tered. 

“Is this true what I hear?” asked the heiress. 

And Lady Gertrude, turning suddenly round to her, 
said : 

“What is it, Ethel.?” 

“ My maid tells me that Miss Derwent has had news 
from home, and is compelled to return there at once. Is 
it true?” 

“There must be some truth in it, for she is busy pack- 
ing, ” said Lady Gertrude. 

“I am very sorry. I like that young girl. Once or 
twice I have fancied her manner rather strange, but she is 
so amiable and good-tempered, always ready and willing 
to oblige every one. I hardly like to ask a question that 
may seem rude, but are her friends in a comfortable posi- 
tion, do you think? Sudden sickness in a house is so 
terrible. ” 

“ You are very kind, Ethel, but there is no need for 


398 ^^YOU HAVE CRUELLY MISJUDGED MEI^ 

you to think of anything of that kind. Mamma will take 
care that Miss Derwent is comfortable.” 

“I am sorry she is going,” said the beautiful heiress; 
and then she began-^o speak of Lord Carsdale’s absence, 
and how long it would last. 

“Thank Heaven,” said Lady Gertrude, “that she has 
not the least idea of anything that has happened. ” 

There came a maid to say that Lady Gertrude was 
wanted, and when Lady Gertrude followed her, it was to 
see Ailie ready dressed, and waiting for her. She looked 
almost in alarm at the white, beautiful face — so silent, so 
wan, so unearthly. A great coil of golden brown hair had 
fallen down and lay over the gray traveling cloak ; before 
Lady Gertrude spoke she took it in her hand — a piece of 
condescension marvelous in the earl’s proud daughter. 

She fastened it under the close traveling hat, and Ailie 
murmured some words of thanks. Then Lady Gertrude 
was confident that although appearances were so much 
against the girl, they were susceptible of explanation. It 
was certain that Lady Gertrude did not believe her guilty. 

Ailie raised her clear, lustrous eyes to the face of Lady 
Gertrude; there was something wistful and pathetic in 
them — something which the earl’s daughter never forgot. 

“Lady Gertrude,” she said, “I am quite ready to go 
now, but I should like to ask one favor from you. May I 
see Lady Waldrove again for one minute? She need not 
speak to me, but I have something to say to her, which if 
I do not say will haunt me.” 

“ I do not think Lady Waldrove would be quite willing 
to see you again. She was quite ill with annoyance.” 

“Let me go to her,” pleaded Ailie “Even if she be 
angry at first that which I have to say to her will please 
her, I believe, so that she will forget her anger.” 


^^YOU HAVE CRUELLY 


“ It is a risk,” said Lady Gertru. 
wish it ” 

“I do,” cried Ailie, eagerly. It would be the grca. 
favor that any one could grant me.” 

“Follow me, then,” said Lady Gertrude. 

She led the way to Lady Waldrove’s room. 

“The only plan is to take my mother by storm,” she 
thought. “ If I ask her consent she will not give it to me.” 

She entered the room. 

“Mamma,” she said, “ Miss Derwent has something of 
importance to say to you, so I have brought her here.” 

“ Really, Gertrude,” began the countess, but she stopped 
abruptly as her eyes fell on the white, pure, beautiful face 
of Ailie Derwent. She was a keen woman in her way, and 
she knew well that there was no guilt hidden by that face. 
One might just as well have called the sun dark, and the 
moon discolored. It was clear, transparent, pure as the 
face of an angel. 

“I had hoped,” she said, peevishly, “that I had seen 
the last of Miss Derwent. Why am I to be annoyed again .?” 

“Lady Waldrove,” said Ailie, “I have something to 
say that I think will please you. I should have said it 
when I was here before, but I was too bewildered. Will 
you kindly listen to me.?” 

. “ I have no alternative,” said the countess, ungraciously. 

“What is it.?” 

Ailie folded her hands, and laid them on the table be- 
fore her — little white hands that trembled so that any one 
might have pitied her. She looked up at Lady Waldrove. 

“I will not intrude one moment on you,” she said; 
“only let me tell you this, and I pray you remember it 
when I am gone — remember that I say distinctly there 


ILLY MISJUDGED MEI^ 


rid a man more . loyal and honor- 
oaale. ' 

r Know it,” said the countess, proudly; ‘‘you need 
not have told me that ” 

“You must have doubted it,” said Ailie, calmly, “when 
you said that I had brought disgrace on your house.” 

“It was you I doubted,” said the countess, “not my 
son. ” 

“So much the better,” said Ailie, calmly. “I wish to 
add this also. Lady Waldrove — that your son has never 
made love to me, and that, still more, he does not love. 
Another thing — I believe honestly that if I were the onlv 
woman living in the wide world, still he would not love 
me. ” 

The countess looked quite triumphant. 

“That means,” she said, ‘Uhat it was not my son who 
ran after you, but you who ran after my son. It is just as 
I suspected ; still I am glad you have had the grace to 
clear him. I presume that you have no more to add. Miss 
Derwent?” 

“ No,” replied Ailie, “ not one word more.” 

“Then you will oblige me by leaving me. My nerves 
are quite unstrung by this sudden and shocking occur- 
rence. Pray leave me. ” 

Ailie looked up at her for one moment. 

“Lady Waldrove,” she said, “you have cruelly mis- 
judged me ; you have been very hard, very severe, and 
you will never know in this world my justification. I have 
served you faithfully and well ; will you not say one kind 
word to me before I go? for we shall never meet again.” 

“I have no kind word to say,” replied the countess. 
“ I wish you no harm, and I shall do you no harm ; more 
than that you cannot expect. The kindest word I can say 


BANISHED. 


401 


to you is, I am well content that you have had the candor 
to clear my son’s chaiacter from the stain resting on it. 
Good-by, Miss Derwent." 

“ Good-by, Lady Waldrove," said Ailie ; and there came 
to neither of them any thought as to when or how they 
should meet again. 


CHAPTER LX. 

BANISHED. 

It seemed to Ailie that she did not fully realize what had 
passed until she found herself driving rapidly along the 
road that led to the station. She had a dim memory of 
servants crowding round her, of farewells and good wishes, 
of Lady Ethel’s beautiful face touching her own, while a 
gentle voice whispered to her ; 

“I am sorry you are going. Miss Derwent, for I like 
you. If ever you want a friend or want help, write to me ; 
I will always help you. ’’ 

And she remembered the cold, sick despair that came 
over her as she thought that the future held no help, no 
friend for her — that all was over, and the lovely woman 
speaking so kindly to her would soon stand in her place 
and bear her name. She felt almost sure that she had 
seen tears in Lady Gertrude’s dark eyes; even those had 
not touched her. She was bewildered and dazed ; she 
could not think or feel ; she could only remain quite pas- 
sive, with a dull, troubled wonder as to what fate would 
do for her next. 

The morning was so beautiful ; the rich, luxuriant sum- 


402 


BANISHED. 


mer was gradually giving way to the brilliant autumn — this 
day seemed to be a union of both. The sky had no 
clouds, the sun was shining warm and bright, the sweet 
air was filled with the breath of sweet flowers ; but neither 
sunshine nor perfume reached her; she was dazed, as one 
who has had a terrible .blow. From between the tall trees 
she saw the towers and turrets of Roseneath — her hus- 
band’s home, the home she should never see again. She 
remembered how light of heart, how happy she had been 
when she entered that house, strong in the hope of win- 
ning all hearts there; now she was leaving it, disgraced, 
her fair fame tarnished, her fair name shadowed, all hope 
of winning the liking of her husband’s friends gone for- 
ever — all hope of winning her husband’s heart and love 
gone forever. She would not even much longer bear the 
empty name of his wife. Desolation and misery could go 
no further. 

Then the carriage stopped, and the footman came to 
the door. Lady Waldrove had told him to buy Miss Der- 
went’s ticket, and help with her luggage. 

“Where shall I take a ticket for, miss.?” asked the man, 
touching his hat and wondering, as she looked up at him 
with dim, vague eyes. “ Where for, miss?” he repeated. 

Heaven help her — where for? She knew no more than 
the birds singing on the trees where to go ; she was only 
quite determined of one thing — that she would hide her- 
sell where no one in the world could ever find her, and 
where she should never see a familiar face. 

The footman repeated his question, and then it dawned 
across her quite suddenly that she must give him an answer 
ol some kind. 

• To London.” she replied, on the impulse of the mo- 
ment — “ to London Bridge station.” 


BANISHED, 


403 


Then the servants did their last kindly office for her — 
her luggage was placed in the train, a seat in a first-class 
carriage was found for her, her ticket put in her hands, 
then they left her. 

“Well,” said James, the footman, to John, the coach- 
man, “ I have never seen any one look as that young lady 
looks. She is no more fit to travel than a baby. I believe 
she is going mad. I never saw such a look in the eyes 
of a sane woman. ” 

They talked for some minutes as to why she was going 
so suddenly. 

“You may take my word for it,” said the footman, 
“that some one she loves is dying — she has just that 
look.” 

While the train sped on through the sweet, flowery 
southern counties to the great city, it was one long dream 
to Ailie. She could hardly collect her thoughts ; she 
could hardly realize what had happened, or where she was 
going; her brain whirled; her eyes burned so that she 
could hardly close them ; her thoughts were all fancied 
and unreal. 

She said to herself over and over again that she should 
soon cease to be Lord Carsdale’s wife — he was going to 
obtain a legal separtition from her ; that he did not love 
her, and never would ; that she had been dismissed from 
his mother’s house with a shadow on her fair fame ; that 
she had been sent away with insult and contumely; that 
she was to go where never a friendly face would meet hers 
— where life would soon wear itself away. She had almost 
forgotten her identity as Ailie Derwent. If the strong, 
passionate love had completely swept away all smaller 
affections; if father or mother had just at that time sud- 


404 


BANISHED. 


denly appeared before her, she would have been troubled 
just at first to recognize them. 

When the train reached London Bridge she had buried 
her face in her hands, and was crying aloud to Heaven to 
take pity on her. The next minute she stood in that 
crowded railway station, quite alone. 

“Cab, miss.?” said the porters, as they hurried by. 

More than one passenger stood still to look curiously 
at the white, beautiful face, with the vague and frightened 
eyes. 

Where was she to go.? She could not stand in that 
crowded station, and no one was coming to help her ; she 
had but herself to depend on. Oh, if strong-hearted Hettie 
or kindly Rose had but been there I But she would never 
see their faces again — never ! 

Suddenly she heard some one say : 

“The London Bridge Hotel.” 

Ah, there was a place of shelter, at least until she could 
make up her mind where to go and what to do. 

“I will go to the London Bridge Hotel,” she said to 
one of the porters. 

The man looked just a little surprised, but said nothing,^ 
and in a few minutes afterward she was comfortably in- 
stalled in the most comfortable sitting-room of that most 
comfortable hotel. 

There the people looked curiously at her, and one brisk 
chambermaid passing by touched her forehead significantly 
to another. There they brought her meat, wine, and tea, 
and carried it all away untouched. 

There she sat by the window, watching the crowd, until 
the shadows of night fell over ahe vast city — the same 
night that lay so softly on the far-ofif hills and dales of 
Roseneath. 


BANISHED. 


405 


“It is my belief,” said the brisk chambermaid, Patty 
iMorven, to herself, “that if some one does not rouse her, 
she will sit there until midnight.” 

She bore it until she could bear it no longer; then she 
went to her. 

“Shall I bring some lights, miss.?” asked Patty. “It 
is growing very dark ; you will be nervous sitting here 
alone.” 

‘ ‘ Dark, ” repeated Ailie, raising her face, with that same 
vague expression — “ dark ; I had not noticed it.” 

The girl said afterward that the. tone in which the lady 
spoke made her blood run cold. 

“ I had not noticed it,” she repeated. “ How long has 
it been dark ?” 

“For more than two hours, miss. I am afraid you are 
not well. Can I get anything for you .?” 

“I am quite well,” said Ailie, dreamily. 

Yet, as she spoke, she was conscious of a strange sensa- 
tion of numbness. 

“But,” said the good-natured Patty, “do you know, 
miss, that you have not broken your fast since you entered 
the house.? I brought you dinner, and carried it away un- 
touched ; I brought you tea that you never tasted, and Pm 
afraid that you will be ill.” • 

Ailie tried to rouse herself, but it seemed as though each 
limb were numbed — as though she could not feel. 

“I did not know,” she said; “I forgot all about 
eating.” 

The good-natured Patty continued : 

“Now, let me bring you some warm wine and water. 
I am sure, miss, that you will be ill if you do not try to 
take something.” 


4o6 


BANISHED. 


Ailie consented to take anything that was brought for 
her. 

“You will stay here for the night, miss.?” continued the 
girl ; and once more Ailie looked at her with the vague, 
dim, strange expression that terrified her. 

“Yes,” she replied, after thinking for a few minutes; 
“ I shall stay here to-night. I leave to-morrow.” 

“Thank Heaven, she has spoken to me!” said Patty, 
afterward. “ Fancy sitting there, as she has done, for six 
hours at that window, without stirring, without moving, 
neither eating, nor drinking, nor speaking ! My idea is, 
that either the poor lady has had some dreadful trouble, 
or that she is going mad. ” 

She felt some relief when Ailie went up to her room. 

“Are you going away early in the morning, miss?” she 
asked. 

And Ailie answered : 

“I cannot tell at what hour I shall go until I know 
where I am going. ” 

At last she was alone in the darkened room, face to face 
with the question — where was she going? Far below her 
lay the crowded city streets ; from them rose the murmur 
of the crowd, that never seemed to grow much less. Last 
night at this hour she was within the stately old Abbey 
walls, waiting for one word with the husband she would 
never see again. It seemed to her that a whole eternity 
had passed since then ; yet it was only twenty-four hours 
— only one night and day. 

“How shall 1 bear my life, great God?” she cried; 
“how shall I bear it?” 

How far away from her in that moment seemed the 
kindly-sheltering heaven where the great God reigned. She 
flung herself on her knees, and she wept passionate tears 


LORD CARSDALE'S RETURN. 


407 


— tears that seemed to burn and blister her face as they 
fell, yet which perhaps saved her life. She wept there 
until she was exhausted, then she lay down to sleep. A 
thought came to her. The tears had evidently cleared her 
brain, for until now she had been unable to think. Now 
a thought came to her, and it was that she would go to 
Fernbay. It was not possible that she could live; she had 
never contemplated living without her husband ; but Death 
would not come just when she wanted him. 

There would be many months of pain, of wasting and 
decay; then the bridegroom, King Death, would claim 
her. She had had one happy day in her life, only one, 
and it was the day she had spent at Fernbay at the regatta. 
She W'ould go there ; she would sit and watch the waves, 
as she had watched them that day with him — that one 
wonderful day, when this gray earth had suddenly changed 
for her into Paradise.* No one would ever think of look- 
ing for her there ; no one knew that she had been there ; 
and the desolate heart took some little comfort from the 
fact that at least she would be where he had been. 


CHAPTER LXI. 

LORD CARSDALE’s RETURN. 

During the whole of his journey to London Lord Cars- 
dale was thinking of his young wife. The sweet and 
gentle words of that letter haunted him ; the fair young 
face, with its sad eyes, haunted him ; the gentle, loving 
manner, he could not forget them. 


4 o 8 lord CARSDALE^S RETURN. 

He said to himself that no man had ever been so loved, 
that such love was a treasure greater than the whole world 
4ield, that no one would ever again care for him as she 
did. Then he wondered at finding that his thoughts were 
all with Ailie. 

“ It IS because she loves me so much,’’ he thought, '^so 
very much. I wish to Heaven it had all been different.” 

He wondered what would happen, even now supposing 
that he loved his young wife, and meant to cling to her, 
what could be the most that would happen? 

His father and mother would be most terribly grieved 
and disappointed; his mother, who was the proudest of 
women, would certainly never consent to speak to him 
again. ' His father could not disinherit him — he must, 
some day or other, be Earl of Roseneath, but it was in the 
earl’s pcwer to deprive him of some part of his inher- 
itance ; he would have cared little for that if he had loved 
her. Then he could never, at least during the life-time of 
his parents, return home — he would have to remain an 
exile from his country, his friends, and all most dear to 
him ; still, if he had loved her, he would not have minded 
that. 

Then he roused himself with a sensation of wonder. 
What did it all mean ? Why was he haunted by Ailie’s 
face, and Ailie’s voice, and the thoughts of Ailie? It was 
Lady Ethel whom he loved. 

Then the train stopped ; he had reached London, and 
was half startled to find that during the whole journey he 
had only thought of one thing — and it was Ailie. 

He went to the hotel and took breakfast, then he pre- 
sented himself at the Horse Guards. It was a mere trifle 
that he was wanted for after all. A court-martial was 
being held on one of the inferior officers of his regiment. 


LORD CARSDALE^S RETURN. 


409 


and some facts that he alone could furnish were required 
at once. He found that he could easily return home on 
the morrow. What should he say to Ailie ? 

‘‘One would imagine,” he thought to himself, “that I 
was the most vacillating man living, yet I never remember 
in all my life to have been undecided in any other 
matter. ” 

He did not make the inquiry about which he had felt 
such keen anxiety, whether a separation could be legally 
obtained or not — the lawyer he had intended to consult 
was not in town, and he would not go to a stranger. So 
he returned home without having made any attempt to 
clear the doubt. He pictured to himself how pleased 
Ailie would be to see him — how her face would brighten 
and soften, even though she should speak no word — how, 
if she found an opportunity, she would welcome him 
with rapture, notwithstanding the little note. And Lady 
Ethel — she would be pleased too; but the case was so 
different. 

It was nearly sunset on the day following when he 
reached home. The western sky was all aflame, and the 
tall towers of the grand old Abbey gleamed fiery red in the 
light of the setting sun. It was a beautiful evening ; from 
the cool, shady woods came the sound of the birds singing 
their vesper hymn ; the flowers seemed to be distilling all 
their sweetness; he heard the pretty, musical cry of the 
ring-dove, the call of the mother birds, and a great sense 
of peace stole over his heart. 

There on the western terrace, where two nights since he 
had stood waiting for Ailie, Lady Ethel sat, looking most 
lovely in the light of the setting sun. 

She sprang from her seat when she saw him and hastened 
to him. 


410 


LORD CARSDALE^S RETURN. 


** I did not know that you were expected home to-day/ 
she said, as she held out both her hands in kindly 
greeting. 

‘‘Have I returned too soon?” he asked, laughingly. 

‘‘That would be difficult,” said Lady Ethel. 

He looked at the beautiful face, listening* to the clear, 
sweet voice, and then asked himself did he really love her 
better than all the world besides ? Did he really love her 
better than that fair young wife who was ready to die for 
him? Which shows the old adage is true, that love must 
win love. 

Lady Ethel walked up and down the long terrace with 
him; they discussed his London journey, the court-mar- 
tial, many other little topics of interest, but it never once 
occurred to Lady Ethel to tell him that Ailie Derwent 
had gone away. Ailie Derwent never once came into her 
thoughts. 

The dinner-bell was ringing when they entered the 
house, and the countess, who saw them enter together, 
suddenly recovered her good humor. It looked well, slie 
thought, that Lady Ethel should have been the first to see 
him ; it looked as though there was some kind of under- 
standing between them, and now that that wretched girl 
was out of the way, who knew what might happen. So 
the countess was more amiable tha'ft usual ; she spoke very 
kindly to her son, and made up her mind to defer until 
the morning any explanation about Miss Derwent. 

It struck Lord Carsdale that there was something of 
subdued and pleasurable excitement among the different 
members of his family. Lady Waldrove looked pleased 
and amiable ; the earl seemed highly delighted. It seemed 
to him, too, that Lady Gertrude looked younger, happier, 
and better than he had seen her look for some time. 


LORD CARSDALE^S RETURN, 


4II 


Has anything happened?” he asked Lady Ethel. 

She looked at him with smiling eyes. 

“I dare not tell any secrets,” she replied. Ask Lady 
Gertrude.” 

He crossed the room to where his sister was sitting. 
Looking at her, he felt sure that his conviction was a true 
one — that she looked younger, happier and better. 

** Gertie,” he asked, in a kindly voice, “what has hap- 
pened, my dear? You look different. You look better 
than I have seen you look for years.” 

And Lady Gertrude, whose face was generally impassive 
and calm as that of a statue, positively looked up at him 
with a blush on her face, and a light in her eyes that made 
her look quite young. 

“What has happened, Gertie?” he repeated, wonder- 
ingly. 

“You had better ask mamma,” she replied. 

And he laughed at the words. 

“That sounds as though I had made you an offer of 
marriage,” he replied. 

Still he felt curious, and he crossed the room to where 
Lady Waldrove sat with a very complacent smile on her 
face. She was talking to Lady Legard ; and Lord Cars- 
dale, looking at that lady, said, gently ; 

“Lady Legard, will ^ou be so very kind as to grant me 
five minutes tde-a-tete with my mother?” 

She complied laughingly, and he sat down by his mother's 
side. Suddenly it occurred to him it was very strange that 
he had not seen Aiiie ; she was sometimes absent from 
the dinner-table, but even when that was the case she 
always appeared in the drawing-room in the evening ; now 
he saw and heard nothing of her. Because of his self-con • 
sciousness, he dare not ask about her ; it would have been 


412 


LORD CARSDALE^S RETURN. 


easy to have said — “How is Miss Derwent?" — but he 
could not do it. She would surely come down presently 
— unless, indeed, she were ill, and, knowing what that 
letter must have cost her, he felt that he should not be sur- 
prised to learn that she was really ill. 

“Is any one ill in the house, mother?" he asked, sud- 
denly. 

Lady Waldrove looked startled. 

“What a strange question, Vivian. No one that I know 
about. 1 have not heard even so much as a headache men- 
tioned. Why do you ask ?" 

“ I cannot tell — the question occurred to me ; and now 
I have another one to ask. What is the meaning of this 
unusual good humor?" 

Lady Waldrove laughed. 

“ Has not Lady Ethel told you?" she asked. 

“Lady Ethel has told me nothing," he replied; “but 
I see for myself that something very pleasant has occurred." 

“You are right, my dear boy," said the countess; 
“something so pleasant, that I can hardly believe in my 
good fortune. I begin to think that I am one of the most 
fortunate of mothers.” 

“ I am rejoiced to hear it," he said ; “but what is your 
news, mother? It concerns Gertrude, I know, for she 
looks so happy about it. " 

“It does concern Gertrude; and this is the news — that 
Lord Rawdon has written and asked her to be his wife. " 

“ Lord Rawdon !" he cried. “ Why, I thought he went 
abroad years ago." 

“ He has been in Greece for the last three years," said 
Lady Waldrove. “You know that, before your sisters 
marriage, I used to fancy there was a liking for each other; 
but he went abroad without saying anything. Now the 


LORD CARSDALE^S RETURN. 


413 

first thing that he does, on returning to England, is to pro- 
pose for her. ” 

“ And does Gertie like him, mother?” asked Lord Cars- 
dale. 

“ Gertrude is a good girl; she would never allow her- 
self to like any one who was not suitable for her ; but I 
really think she has liked Lord Rawdon ever since she first 
met him. I have great reason to be thankful that my 
daughters have done so well. Dear Lord Rawdon will be 
here next week, and the marriage, I have no doubt, will 
take place in the autumn.” 

am very glad — very much pleased,” said Lord Cars- 

dale. 

So am I; no two girls in England will have married 
better than mine, ” said the countess. ‘ ‘ There only re- 
mains now my son, and I expect to be even more pleased 
with my son’s marriage than I have been with my daugh- 
ters.” 

“I must go and congratulate Gertie,” said Lord Cars- 
dale, hurriedly, and his mother looked after him with a 
musing smile. 

Had he missed Ailie Derwent? Did he know she was 
gone? she wondered, more and more. Brother and sister 
exchanged some kindly words. Lord Carsdale was really 
pleased, and expressed himself so genially and affection- 
ately that Lady Gertrude was quite candid with him. 

“ I have always liked Lord Rawdon,” she said. There 
is no one I think so much of. I know that I shall be very 
happy indeed.” 

Then Lord Carsdale began to wonder again where Ailie 
was. It seemed strange that she was not there ; that no 
one expected her; that no one mentioned her. He would 
have thought it stranger still if he had known that, during 


414 


“/ AM A COiVARD, 


the whole evening, no one there had thought of her, not 
even the countess, who had dismissed her with such insult- 
ing words ; or Lady Gertrude, who had pitied her ; or Lady 
Ethel, who had liked her. She had never once entered 
their minds ; and it so happened that Lord Carsdale went 
to his room that evening without having heard that she had 
left Roseneath. 


CHAPTER LXII. 

“I AM A COWARD.” 

The morning following Lady Waldrove sent for her son. 
She wished him to take breakfast with her in her pretty 
boudoir. She looked up with a smile as he entered. 

“You see, my dear,” she said, “I have so very much 
to attend to to-day, I have not really time to go into the 
breakfast-room. I have to see milliners and all kinds of 
people. I have had what I cannot help calling a really 
beautiful letter from Lord Rawdon this morning. I find 
that we shall have to hurry on our preparations. 1 like to 
see a lover in earnest ; it speaks well for him.” 

“Certainly,” laughed Lord Carsdale. “I should say, 
mother, that all lovers are in earnest — are they not?” 

The countess shrugged her shoulders. 

“They should be, Vivian. That reminds me of the 
subject that I sent for you to speak about. I must say that 
it has annoyed me very much ; indeed, it made me very ill 
until this gleam of sunlight over Gertrude’s marriage 
restored me. ” 


“/ AM A co^vakd:' 


415 


‘‘I am sorry that you have been annoyed, mother,” he 
replied, without the least consciousness of her meaning, 
*‘What is it about?” 

The lady looked keenly in her son’s face. Was he only 
fencing with her, or was it possible that he had not noticed 
her absence? Then she remembered how straightforward 
and open he was always — without pretense, sham, or affec- 
tation. 

“It is really a subject that I do not like mentioning,” 
she continued. 

It was one thing to trample upon a friendless girl, but 
quite another matter to talk to a man to his face of what 
one considers his favorite vices. 

Lord Carsdale looked up proudly. 

“If it be anything concerning me, mother, you need 
have no scruple in mentioning it.” 

‘ ‘ I am glad to hear you say so, Vivian. Of course I am 
a woman of the world. I know how to make allowances, 
above all for young men ; and without doubt she threw 
herself quite in your way.” 

“ My dear mother,” said the astonished nobleman, “of 
what and of whom are you speaking? I do not under- 
stand you. ” 

“You will understand soon. Now, Vivian, there is no 
need to fly out in that kind of way. I know what the 
Carsdale temper is like when it is roused. I tell you that, 
though really I ought not to be, still I am your friend in 
the matter ; and, as you will see, I have acted like a friend 
to you.” 

“When it will please you to enlighten me, mother, I 
shall be charmed to listen,” he said. “My life is an open 
book any one may read ” 

Then suddenly remembering his marriage — that su- 


“/ AM A COWARD.^* 


416 

preme folly of his youth — he stopped abruptly, and his 
handsome face flushed hotly. My lady smiled. 

“An open book, my dear, with a few pages turned 
down. Have no fear, I shall never seek to read the book. 
As I have told you, I am lenient to the faults of young 
men, because I believe they are often more sinned against 
than sinning. A truce to all fencing, Vivian ; I want you 
to trust me, and tell me the real secret of your acquaint- 
ance with my late companion, Ailie Derwent. 

And the words produced such a terrible effect on Lord 
Carsdale that she was half alarmed. He sprang from his 
seat, his whole face changed, his whole manner altered, the 
careless smile vanished ; he had grown fierce, wary, and 
earnest. 

“ Will you explain what you mean, mother?" he said. 

“Yes, when you have answered my question. What 
was the exact acquaintance between you ?” 

“What if I refuse to answer you, mother?" 

“In that case I, of course, shall form my own conclu- 
sions. I cannot compel you to speak, but I shall know 
what to think. You seem to forget that I am asking you 
to trust me." 

“I do not forget — ^you are very kind," he replied, hur- 
riedly; “but your question was such a strange one — it 
took me so completely by surprise. Why, mother, should 
you assume that tljere was any kind of acquaintance be- 
tween us — why assume that?" 

“ I know it," replied the countess ; “I should not have 
spoken to you on mere suspicion. To be quite frank with 
you, Vivian, the girl was seen at the door of your room 
the night before last." 

“ Seen where ?" he cried ; then remembering that mid- 


“/ AM A coward:* 


417 


night visit, which he had so much disliked at the time, he 
cried aloud : Great Heaven ! Seen there?” 

“Yes,” said the countess, calmly; “she was seen 
there.” 

“And by whom?” he cried again. 

“ I would rather not have told you that ; but since you 
must know, it was by your sister Gertrude. ” 

“Gertrude!” he repeated; and again his face flushed 
hotly. “Well — whai then, mother?” 

“Nay,” said the countess, “it is for you to supply the 
‘what then.’ I took the girl as my companion, believing 
her to be a good girl — she always seemed a good, modest 
girl to me ; then I hear that, after I believed her safely 
shut up in her own room at night, she is seen at the door 
of yours. I ask you — what brought her there?” 

“I will assure you, mother,” he replied, trying to speak 
calmly, “it was a mistake — I admit that; but it was a 
mistake as only a really innocent girl would have made. A 
girl, if more worldly or of a less pure mind, would have 
been far more alive to the value of appearances.” 

• “Still you have not answered my question. What took 
her there?” 

“ It was the simplest thing in the world,” he said. “I 
had asked her that day to write something for me, and she 
had done it ; then she found no opportunity of giving it to 
me. She saw me passing through the corridor, and fol- 
lowed me to the door of my room, when she gave it 
to me; that is all, I assure you.” 

The countess looked very thoughtful for a few minutes, 
then she said : 

“I cannot quite believe it, Vivian; I am trying, bu* 
you see I cannot.” 

“That is not my fault, mother; I have told you the 


“/ AM A COIVARD.^* 


418 

exact truth of that incident, just as it stands before Hea,ven. 
I have, indeed." 

“There was more' than that one visit; once or twice, if 
not oftener, she went out into the grounds at night, either 
with you or after you. Her room has been found empty, 
and she has been seen with you. What is that you say, 
Vivian 

For^the young heir had ground some terrible words be- 
tween his teeth, and was pacing with hasty steps up and 
down the room. 

“Never mind what I say, mother; there are times when 
a man is almost driven mad. Psay nothing." 

But in his heart he moaned : 

“Poor Ailie ! poor, hapless child !" 

Then he turned almost fiercely to his mother. 

“Will you tell me what you have done with her.?" 
he said. “You are one of those good, virtuous women 
who condone a man’s sins, and punish so hardly the follies 
of a girl. What have you done with her?" 

“The Carsdale temper again, Vivian; I had no idea 
that you possessed it so strongly. I can soon tell you 
what I did; you owe me thanks for my forbearance. " 

His anger was gradually growing beyond his control; 
the veins in his forehead stood out like thick cords. 

“Tell me what mercy you showed her — this hapless, 
helpless, innocent girl ?" 

“I told her my opinion of her," said the countess, 
proudly, “and that in pretty plain words, too; then I dis- 
missed her." 

“You what?'' he cried. 

“1 dismissed her. You could not expect me to harbor 
such a person here." 


“/ AM A COWARD.^^ 


41.9 


His face grew white as death, and the strong, brave 
figure trembled ; his lips quivered, and his eyes grew dim. 

“Would you mind repeating to me,'” he said, “the very 
plain words which you addressed to her.?” 

“ Certainly, ” said the countess, briskly; “I will repeat 
them with pleasure ; they seemed to be very effective words 
at the time. I told her she had been the first to disgrace 
Roseneath ; that I did not believe these walls Ijad ever be- 
fore held a person whose character was shadowed as hers 
was. ” 

• Ke winced as though each word had been a blow. . 

“Then I told her she must have used some very 
cunning acts to have inveigled you. I gave her some 
money, promised to keep her secret, and sent her away. ” 

“Sent her where?” he asked. 

“I really do not know where she is gone. I did 
not ask her ; to her own home, I presume.” 

“What more did you say, mother?” 

“ I cannot remember all, but you know that I can speak 
pretty plainly when I choose. I told her how shameful 
and disgraceful it was for a young girl like her to seek to 
entrap the affections or engage the attention of one so far 
above her.” 

^ ‘ And she — what did she say ? Oh, God, my poor 
Ailie ! what did she say ?” 

“I must speak the truth,” she replied, “and tell you 
that her manner was most dignified. I had to keep 
reminding myself of what Gertrude had said to make my- 
self believe that she was guilty.” 

“My God!” he cried again, “that such a scene should 
have been. I am a coward, a cur, to let her suffer 
for me !” 

The countess looked anxious at her son’s great emotion. 


4 20 


“ZmS GIRL IS MY wife:* 


“I must own,” she continued, “that there was guilt in 
her manner. She never attempted to excuse herself. She 
did not deny one charge made against her.” 

“lam sure she would not,” he answered. 

And then his eyes grew hot with tears as he thought of 
Patient Griselda. 

“She did not, and, to do her justice, she quite exon- 
erated you from all blame. Let me tell you what she said. 
She stood before me quite erect, her face white as marble, 
even her lips were white, and they trembled as she spoke. 

* I wish to tell you one thing that will please you. Lady. 
Waldrove, ' she said. ‘ Lord Carsdale has never loved me, 
has never said a word of love to me in all his life, and, if 
I were the only woman living in the world, he would never 
love me. " ” 

“Hush!” he cried, with upraised hands — “hush! for 
Heaven’s sake, hush 1 I cannot hear another word.” 


CHAPTER LXIII. 


“this girl is my wife.” 

Lady Waldrove looked almost suspiciously at her son. 
What could it mean, this violent emotion? Surely he 
could never have so far forgotten the traditions of his 
youth as to have fallen in love with this girl. Then, 
remembering how he had seemed to love Lady Ethel, she 
was comforted. Still this great emotion puzzled her. What 
could it mean ? 

“Yes,” she continued, musingly; “both Gertrude and 


“ 77 //^ GIRL IS MY WIFEI^ 


421 


myself were quite touched by her looks. I really did not 
know how beautiful the girl was until I noticed her then. 
I was struck, too, by her silence; most women say so 
much, and, when they are attacked, speak loudly. She 
never uttered one single word — not one.” 

‘‘ Did she not deny that she was what you chose to call 
guilty, mother.?” he asked. 

“No; she said literally nothing, except to give her testi- 
mony to the fact that you were the best and noblest man 
on earth.” 

“ Poor Ailie ! poor child !” he moaned. 

“I have witnessed a scene in a play just like it,” con- 
tinued the countess ; “the white, rigid, beautiful face, and 
the white lips. She had just the same silent, passive look 
of martyrdom — a look which said, ‘ I could clear myself 
if I would, but I will not.' Then, of course, one knows 
it was assumed for some purpose or other.” 

“ Be silent, mother,” he said. 

The countess laughed. 

“You take it very much to heart,” she said. “You 
cannot really be serious in showing all this emotion. You 
cannot mean it. I see that you will not trust me, but I 
should certainly like to know how far what you call your 
acquaintance with her had gone. Was it merely a foolish 
flirtation? You need have no fear in trusting me, because 
I have sent the girl away, and we shall see her no more.” 

Lord Carsdale rose suddenly from his seat ; he was just 
on the point of uttering some very strong words, when my 
lady's maid came to the door. 

“ Madame Duval has just arrived from London.” 

And as Madame Duval was then the principal Parisian 
dressmaker in London, her arrival was a matter of some 
importance. 


422 


«‘7mS GIRL IS MY IVIFE” 


‘ ‘ Vivian, you must excuse me, said the countess. * ‘ Do 
not go ; I have something more to say to you. This is 
imperative, or I would not leave you.’’ 

She went away, leaving her son bewildered, yet almost 
resolved upon a course of action that yesterday would have 
seemed like madness to him. His heart had never ached 
so deeply before; that fair, gentle, innocent girl, what a 
deadly curse his love had been to her — what a terrible 
curse ! How she suffered, yet how sinless and innocent 
she was ! 

Who could have foreseen, he asked himself, that the 
Quixotic folly of his youth should have this tragic ending? 
He had thought, like a hot-headed boy, only of saving 
her fair name ; and now this same fair name was lost. She 
had incurred the odium that comes only from guilt, and 
it was all through him. She had been insulted with base, 
unkindly, almost unclean words, all through him — she, 
his wife, the fair, gentle girl, whose only fault was that she 
loved him too well; she, his wife, who had the right to 
bear his name, had been sent from his roof, from the 
shelter of his house, with the sting of insult, the sword of 
injustice; and in her defense she had spoken no word. 
He remembered the one pathetic sentence: ^‘It would 
be sweet and easy to die for you. ” She had done some- 
thing more than die for him ; she had lived and suffered ; 
she had endured insult and calumny — all without one 
word. She might have looked proudly down on hfs proud 
mother ; she could have crushed her with one word ; she 
could have said, ‘‘I am your soft's wife!” and then her 
vengeance would have been complete, her enemies would 
have been taunted, she would have been mistress of the 
situation ; but she was too noble, too generous. The very 
weapons which lay in her hands she had calmly set aside, 


^^THIS GIRL IS MY WIFEI^ 


423 


and had refused to avail herself of them. She might, 
even without telling her secret, without betraying him — 
she might have saved herself ; she might have said, “The 
blame is not mine, it is your son's; ask him for an ex- 
planation, not me." But even of that weapon she had 
not chosen to avail herself ; she had submitted to all the 
shame, the insult, the calumny, as she would have sub- 
mitted to death — all for his sake. He felt like a coward 
in the light of her memory. Had there ever been, would 
there ever be another woman like her — so devoted, so 
gentle, so loving, so true 

“1 should be a cur, and no man, if I allowed this to 
pass," he said. “ I am the descendent of a hundred earls; 
surely I am not to be outdone in honor, in generosity, in 
loyalty, by a tender, fragile girl !" The manhood within 
him rose in hot rebellion against what had been done. 
“ If I allow this to pass," he thought, “ if I allow my wife 
to be driven from my home, loaded with insult and abuse 
— if I accept such a sacrifice as she has made for me, I 
should be less than a man. Heroic as she has been, I 
shall never be ; but at least I will imitate her. I will make 
a sacrifice for her, as she has made one for me. " 

He thought of her standing there, silent throughout that 
terrible scene, until his eyes grew dim with tears, and a 
great sob came from his lips. 

Then Lady Waldrove returned. As she closed the door, 
she looked up with a smile. 

“That is all settled," she said; “and I venture to 
prophesy that Gertie will have the prettiest wedding-dress 
ever seen." 

“ Mother, "said Lord Carsdale, “have I your permission 
to send for my father here } I have something to say which 
I think should be said before him. " 


424 


^^THIS GIRL IS MY WIFE:^ 


The countess looked up in wonder. 

* ‘ Certainly, Vivian ; send for whom you will, ” she 
replied. 

He rang the bell, and told the man who answered 
to ask Lord Waldrove if he would come there for a few 
minutes. 

“You are very mysterious, Vivian,” said the countess. 

Her son made no reply. 

Then the earl came in full of wonder. It was such an 
unusual thing for him to be sent for in that fashion, that 
he was some time in even understanding it. 

“ Is it you. Lady Waldrove, or you. Lord Carsdale, who 
wished to see me?” he asked, curtly. 

Then he stopped suddenly, for there caTne to him a con- 
viction that there was something unusual — an atmosphere 
charged with tragedy. His son’s face was pale and hag- 
gard ; his wife looked perplexed and discomfited. 

“What is the matter?” he asked, looking from one to 
the other sharply. 

Then Lord Carsdale went up to him, and placed both 
his hands on his shoulders. 

“Father,” he said, “you, and I have never had one 
sharp, angry, or bitter word in all our lives. ” 

“ No, my boy ; and we never shall, I hope.” 

“It is a vain hope. I have that to tell you which will 
make you dislike me, and will part us forever. ” 

“You are mad, Vivian !” cried the earl. 

The countess rose hurriedly and came up to them. 

“ What is he saying?” she cried. “-Oh, my God ! What 
does he mean, Stephen?” 

“ I cannot tell; we must listen, Lucie,” he replied. 

“It is that girl !” cried the countess — “that horrible, 
treacherous girl !” 


“Zms- GIRL IS MY WIFE:^ 


425 


“Hush, mother— listen ; listen, father. That girl, as 
my mother calls her — Ailie Derwent — is pure and inno- 
cent, guileless in heart and soul as a little babe. She was 
seen imprudently to come to my door at night, to give me 
something she had written. My mother and sister sit in 
judgment over her; they condemn her; they pronounce 
her guilty of Heaven knows what sins. They send her 
away with insmlt, and abuse, and calumny ; and she never 
opens her lips — never attempts to justify herself by even 
one word’ — never seeks to clear herself — makes no defense, 
endures all in silence — and goes with these cruel, scathing, 
words ringing in her ears. Then my mother asks what is 
she to me — this tender, innocent girl, driven forth with 
such hard words. I sent for you, father, that you might 
have my answer. The son of a hundred earls, I will not , 
be outdone in loyalty and courage by a woman. I trample 
down my cowardice, which has been the cowardice of love 
and social trammel ; I atone for the silent cowardice of 
years, and answer you, my mother. She — this girl — is my 
wife ! — my wifeT 

Lord Waldrove shrank as though his son had suddenly 
struck him a. blow ; the countess threw up her hands, with 
a wild cry. 

“I will not believe it — he is mad !” she said. “ He has 
no wife.” 

“I will tell you frankly the whole history of my mar- 
riage,” he said. “ I will own that it was the most Quixotic 
and mad action that a hot-headed boy could be guilty of. 

I will make no excuses for myself ; I know that this will 
part us.” 

Then, standing erect before his horrified listeners, he 
told them the story of his marriage, without omitting one 
detail, without making one excuse. 


426 


^*THIS GIRL IS MY WIFE!' 


They listened without comment, in hopeless despair. 

‘‘I swear to you,” he said, “ that I had no intention of 
marrying her ; I never even thought of it. I never made 
love to her ; I did not love her. I admired her, and I 
longed to give her one day’s happiness. But when I saw 
her shut out in the streets, what could I do? It seemed 
to me, to my boyish sense of chivalry, that the only way 
to save her was to marry her. 

“It was a terrible error, but a chivalrous one,” said the - 
earl, slowly. 

“ It was the mad act of a madman !” cried the countess. 

‘ I have never loved her, ” continued Lord Carsdale, 
“until now; we have been the greatest strangers. Even 
when I went away to Gibraltar, I forgot, she tells me, to 
wish her good-by. I loved Lady Ethel, as I have owned 
to you. Ailie has never been my wife, even in name, for 
she has never borne mine ; and, some time since, I thought 
that, under all these circumstances, it would be possible 
for me to obtain a legal separation from her ” 

“Thank Heaven!” interrupted the countess. 

“I asked her permission, and though it must have 
been terribly hard for her to consent, because she loves 
me, she did consent. When she came to my room, 
mother, it was to bring me this little note. Read it, then 
you will understand how unjust you have been to her.” 

He gave the sad little note, all blistered and blotted 
with tears, to his parents, and stood in silence while they 
read it — silence unbroken, save by the whisper of the wind 
as it wooed the gorgeous autumn flowers. 


**YOU HAVE DESTROYED MY LIFE:* 


427 


CHAPTER LXIV. 

“you have destroyed my life.” 

“There is some sense in that,” said the earl. 

He did not profess to have any heart; such trifles as 
love, sentiment, romance, cr affection did not trouble 
him ; he had a kindly love for his own wife and children — 
but this terrible pathos, this half-divine despair, was a dead 
letter to him, he did not understand it in the least ; still 
he was touched by the unutterable pathos of those few 
words. 

“She certainly seems very fond of you, Vivian,” he said, 
while the countess added : 

“ If I had known this — if I had only been less quick to 
judge.” 

Lord Waldrove looked up at the haggard, handsome 
face o^' his son. 

“ I do not think that you will be able to get a legal 
separation, ” he said. ' ‘ If your marriage was legal, I see 
no ground for dissolving it. ” 

“ Have you made any inquiries?” asked the countess. 

“No, mother; and I do not intend making any. I 
would not have my freedom if it were offered to me. 
Socially, my wife is below me; she is far above me in 
every other respect — she is a heroine. I am less than a 
man; fear and cowardice shall rule me no longer.” 

“He is quite mad, Stephen,” said the countess, pathetic- 
ally, to her husband. 

“ You will find there is method in my madness, mother. 
She has shamed me ; she has shown such invincible truth, 


428 *^yOC/ HAVE DESTROYED MY LIFE^ 

patience, and loyalty that my heart is touched. I have a 
reverence and respect such as I never imagined myself 
capable of. She has risen from the beautiful ranks of noble 
womanhood to the regions where heroines and martyrs 
live. I — I am unworthy of such love as she has shown me.” 

Then a sudden painful silence fell over them which Lord 
Carsdale was the first to break. 

“I know the penalty,” he said, “and I must pay it, 
even should it break my heart. I shall have to leave you, 
mother, whom I love so much, and I shall bring sorrow to 
my father’s later years ; but I ask no pity for myself, no 
mercy — such a foolish. Quixotic action must be punished.” 

“You are right,” said the earl, gravely; “it must be 
punished.” 

“Up to the present time,” said Lord Carsdale, gravely, 
“the punishment has all fallen on Ailie ; it is only fair 
that some of it should fall on me. ” 

“What do you intend to do.?” asked Lord Waldrove. 
“It will be better that we understand each other. You 
own that your mistake was a terrible one — it cuts you off 
from us forever.” 

‘ ‘ I know it, father. I feel that all prayer for pardon 
would be useless. An innocent woman has suffered for 
me so long that I need not shrink from suffering myself.” 

‘ ‘ Shall you try to obtain the separation ?” asked the 
countess, coldly. 

‘•No, mother, not now. I shall go and find my wife. 
I shall try to atone to her for all that I have caused her to 
suffer. I shall try to repay her for some of her great love.” 

‘ ‘ That is your fixed determination .?” said the countess, 
coldly. 

“It is my unalterable resolve, mother,” he replied, 
“Even you must acknowledge that I owe her that” 


*^YOU HAVE DESTROYED MY LIFE^ 


429 

Lady Waldrove turned with despairing eyes to her hus- 
band"/ 

“Stephen,” she said, in a low voice, “this will ruin us. 
When Lord Rawdon knows it he will refuse to marry 
Gertie. You know how proud the Rawdons are.” 

“Lord Rawdon need not know it, mother— no one 
need kriow it. I will find my unhappy wife and take her 
abroad. You will never be distressed or annoyed by us.” 

Then, with a bitter cry, the countess fell back in her 
chair. 

“Oh, my son, my son!” she moaned. “My son, for 
whom I hoped so much.” She buried her face in her 
hands and wept aloud. 

It was the first time that either husband or son had seen 
her shed tears, and they were terribly distressed.' ' 

“Lucie,” cried the earl, “do not give way ; " while Lord 
Carsdale flung himself on his knees at his mother's feet. 

“Mother,” he said, “your tears punish me more than 
any words could do. I do not ask you to forgive me — I 
know that you cannot do that. I do not ask you even to 
receive my wife — you cannot do that. I promise you that 
I will go away where you cannot suffer by my imprudence.” 

“But I love you,” sobbed the countess, her pride yield- 
ing — “I love you, Vivian. I do not want you to live away 
from me. You always forget that I love you. I have been 
so proud of you, my only son, and I want you near me.” 

“My dear mother, if I could die to undo my folly, I 
would 1” cried Lord Carsdale. 

The countess raised her head. 

^‘Vivian,” she said, slowly, “it is quite useless to re- 
proach you, and I see there is no undoing what is done ; 
but promise me one thing — you will not allow one word 


430 HAVE DESTROYED MY LIFE:' 

of this to be known, for Gertie’s sake — for my daughter s 
sake piomise me.” 

“I promise, mother, with one exception. I must tell 
Lady Ethel ; but you will have no fear of her ; she will 
keep my secret as though it were her own. I must tell 
her, or she will not understand ; and when I have told her, 
I swear to you that no further word of it shall cross my 
lips. I will find my wife and take her away. ” 

“Stephen, can you do nothing?” cried the countess. 
“Can you not interfere? Can you not save this hot- 
headed boy from his own ruin ?” 

“ He has chosen his path, and he must keep to it,” said 
the earl. “I never dreamed that this trouble awaited me 
in my old age. The hand I loved best has smitten me.” 

“There could have been no trouble so great as this,” 
said the countess. “I could never have believed it. 
Stephen, forbid him to tell this wicked story to his sisters. 
They must not know it — they must not, indeed.” 

“They never shall from me,” said Lord Carsdale. “I 
will go, mother; I know that home is no longer home for 
me.” 

“I have lost my son,” sobbed Lady Waldrove, “my 
only son. He will be dead to me for all time. Oh, 
Stephen, can you do nothing? Can you not make him 
give this girl up? .Why should he make us all miserable 
for her? Make him give her up, Stephen !” 

It was her first great trouble, and it seemed intolerable 
to her. Lord Waldrove tried to soothe her. 

“My dear Lucie, I cannot make and remake laws,” he 
said. “ I cannot dissolve a marriage just because it is dis- 
tasteful to us. . Vivian must act as seems best to him.” 

“ I shall never look any one in the face again when this 
is known,” moaned the countess. 


*^YOU HAVE DESTROYED MY LIFE^ 


431 


“It never will be known, .mother,” replied Lord Cars- 
dale. “ I will leave home this very day, and I shall never 
return until you send for me and tell me to bring my wife.” 

“Which will never be,” said the countess, angrily. 

“Very well, mother; we need not prolong this scene. I 
will find Lady Ethel, and I will say all that I have to say 
to her, then I will go. You will see, sir,” he continued, 
turning to his father, “that all my things are sent after me 
to the Langham Hotel. I shall stay for some days in 
town. Mother, I have done very wrong, but you might 
have been kinder to me. You have sacrificed me to ap- 
pearances. You can save them yet. I will say farewell to 
all the household, and no one shall know, from the way in 
which I do it, that I may never see them again. Have 
you not one kind word for me, mother.?” 

He was her idol. There was nothing on earth that she 
loved like him ; but her pride rose, her anger mastered her. 

“ If you want kind words,” she said, “go to the girl for 
whose sake you desert us, ” and she left the room with head 
erect and flaming eyes. 

“ If I had remained there one minute longer,” she said 
to herself, with angry tears, ‘ ‘ I believe that I should have 
forgiven him ; I could not have helped it.” 

It was her first great trouble, and she took it sorely to 
heart. If all the world had turned against her, it would 
not have grieved her one-half so much as this glaring fall 
of her son. She was in every way disappointed — her pride, 
her hopes, her affections, her plans. She had thought to 
herself that people would all praise her son — would say 
Lady Waldrove married her children so w’ell ; now no one 
could say anything of the kind ; side by side with the bril- 
liant marriages of the two ladies would be cited always the 
terrible mesalliance of her sen. It was an awful b’.ow tj 


432 “iw HAl^E DESTROYED MY LIFE:' 

her pride — there could have been none greater — and an 
equally terrible blow to her affections. 

Still, she had appearances to keep up and to study. She 
knew her world so well, and if any one of the curious 
dowagers whose daughters were not marrying well, saw 
her look sad or dreary, she knew directly that they would 
whisper to each other, with complacent smiles, that there 
was something wrong over the settlements. She must look 
brisk and happy, let her feel what she might. Better, per- 
haps, to open the attack herself. She went to the drawing- 
room, when she had carefully obliterated all traces of tears, 
and meeting Lady Legard, said : 

“We have had news to-day. My son. Lord Carsdale, 
has to leave us again, and we do not know when he will 
return.” 

She knew that Lady Legard, in her mild way, would 
distil this information through the house, and so all trouble 
would be saved. 

While the two gentlemen whom she had left together 
stood looking at each other. 

“It is a sorry case,” said the earl — “a sorry ending to 
all the bright and pleasant hopes that your mother had 
formed for you. My boy, how could you mistake fo 
greatly? You have cut yourself off from us more, almost, 
than if you were dead.” 

“I know it,” he replied; “and looking back, I tell you 
quite honestly that I cannot think how I did it. It was a 
piece of boyish. Quixotic folly. I never thought of the 
consequences. I never thought of what would happen. I 
seemed to remember nothing but the fact that I had per- 
suaded the girl to go out, and that through me, she was at 
that hour oi night without home or shelter.” 


A NOBLE WOMANS S ADVICE. 


435 


*‘But there were a hundred other ways and means!” 
cried the earl. 

None of them occurred to me,” said Lord Carsdale. 

I do not excuse myself in the least; I have not one word 
to say. You are very angry, father?” 

“ Yes ; I am more disappointed than angry. I thought 
so much of you ; I had built perhaps extravagant hopes 
over you, for I love you. ” 

Lord Carsdale sighed deeply. 

Shall we part in anger, father?” he asked. ‘'We have 
never had an unkind word — will you not be a little merci- 
ful to me now?” 

“I cannot,” said the earl, with a low moan, as of sud- 
den pain — “ I cannot, for you have destroyed my life!” 

And those were the last words that passed between them 
for many yeai;s. 


CHAPTER LXV. 

A NOBLE woman’s ADVICE. 

“I do not know,” said Lord Carsdale, “how I have 
summoned courage to tell you the truth. I can never 
hope that you will forgive me.” 

He was sitting with Lady Ethel under one of the great 
spreading oaks in the park. He had asked her to come 
out with him, as he had something very particular to say 
to her. One look at his troubled, haggard face told her 
the words were not idle ones, and, without any reply, she 
put on her hat and mantle, and went with him. 

How he told her the story he never knew. The words left 


434 


A NOBLE H^OMAN^S ADVICE. 


his lips, but he seemed to have tOst all control over them. 
The only thing that he remembered very clearly was that 
some late roses were blooming near them, and that, to the 
end of his life, the odor of a rose made his very heart sick 
and faint. 

“ I have nothing to forgive,” said Lady Ethel. “ I have 
long since felt quite sure that there was a secret of seme 
kind or other in your life. I knew that };ou loved me 
when you met me here five years ago; but. Lord Carsdale, 
I do not understand why you asked me that question a few 
days since.* If you were married at that time, how could 
you want to know whether I loved you or not 

He told her what he had intended, and she shrank from 
him as she listened. 

“That would have been wrong,” she said, “and if you 
had asked me, I should have told you so. Once a mar- 
riage, always a marriage — nothing can change it. Even 
if you had legally . and lawfully obtained, that separation, 
and if I had been told the truth, 1 should have refused to 
marry you.” 

“ Ethel ! ’ he cried, reproachfully. 

“I am speaking the plain truth,” she said. “I have 
my own ideas of right and wrong ; nothing C 2 )uld change 
them.” 

“I wish,” he said, humbly; “that you would tell me 
just what you think of my conduct, without the least fear 
— will you, Ethel .?” 

She raised her beautiful face to his, and he saw how pale 
it was : his heart smote him as he looked at her. 

“I will tell you,” she said, “just what I think. Your 
admiration of a very pretty and gentle girl was simple 
enough ; the first wrong step was in speaking to her ; you 
had no right to do it — she was not of your station or your 


( 


A NOBLE WOMANS S ADVICE. 435 

class, and no good coald come of any acquaintance be- 
tween you ; the second wrong step was in asking her to 
go out with you ; still, your motive was, you say, kind- 
ness, yet it was most dreadfully imprudent. Of your mar- 
riage, I can only say that it was a Quixotic folly; I can 
understand it, though, and in some measure forgive it ; it 
was the rash impulse of a rash boy — the quickest but most 
fatal way out of a difficulty. Will you forgive me, if I say 
that your marriage seems to me far less culpable than the 
silence that followed it. You ask me to dissect your con- 
duct, and I do so. Why did you not boldly own what 
you had done.^* I make all allowance. You did not like 
to grieve your parents, yet you have been obliged to grieve 
them in the end. You were cautious on account of the 
Duke of Claverdon ; his love for your sister must have 
. been very weak if it could not stand that strain on it. It 
seems to me that your silence was weak and cowardly. " 

' “ Oh, Ethel," he cried, “spare me!” 

“You have asked me for the truth,” she said ; “I must - 
tell you that or nothing. It may be useful to you at some 
time.” ■ 

* You are right,” he said. “Go on, Ethel.” 

“The: , I think next, that you did wrong over me, very 
wrong. I was young when I met you here, and you sought 
me. Why did you do that, knowing that you were mar- 
ried? True, you did not perhaps what the world calls 
make love to me, but you were like my shadow, and you ' 
must have seen that I was learning to care for you.” 

“Ethel,” he cried, hurriedly. “ I tell you, though the 
words cover me with sjiame, I loved you so madly that I 
never hardly thought of my marriage; I did not realize it.” 

“ It was a cruel wrong to me,” she said, with gentle dig- 
nity, “ very cruel. " 


43 ^ 


A NOBLE PVOMAN^S ADVICE. 


you forgive me, Ethel?” he asked, sadly. “I 
can never forgive myself.” 

“Yes, I forgive you; but all my life I shall have to 
suffer for your folly. Lord Carsdale, people say that pru- 
dence is a prim, prosaic virtue. Look at the desolation 
and the suffering brought into so many lives, then say if 
prudence be not the virtue of kings.” 

“I see it,” he said, gravely. 

Her face lightened and brightened through all its pallor. 

“That is what I think of you,” she said. “ I have told 
you the worst ; now let me comfort you by saying that I 
do not think you have been guilty of any great sin — im- 
prudence is not always a sin ; but while I speak so of you, 
tell me in what words I am to speak of that glorious, that 
noble woman, your wife? She is beyond praise, and I 
think of her wi|h my heart warm and my eyes full of tears. 
Think what she has suffered, yet how brave, how noble, 
how courageous she is. She must have felt that, quite un- 
consciously, I was her rival. Yet she was always ready 
to help me — to invent pretty dresses for me. I declare to 
you that I never once saw an impatient look on her face ; 
and, oh. Lord Carsdale, do you remember that evening 
when my dress was disarranged, and she knelt down to 
stitch it? I understand your impatience now. There is 
no one like her in the wide world — not one. Think,” she 
continued, “of her patient love, imagine her silence under 
all those false accusations. Lord Carsdale, you may thank 
Heaven that you have found so good a wife. Your im- 
prudence in this case has turned out a blessing to you. I 
consider Ailie, as you call her, one of the most noble and 
perfect women I have ever seen. ” 

‘‘Thank you for speaking so kindly of her, Ethel,” he 


A NOBLE WOMAN^S ADV/CE. 


437 


“ I know it all, and more. Of her beauty there cannot 
be two questions ; one only sees such a face in a life-time. 
You have every reason to be poud of your wife, Lord Cars- 
dale.” 

“Heaven bless you, Ethel, you are a true friend,’’ he 
replied. “ Now you have made the wound, give me the 
cure. You tell me very frankly in what I have done wrong. 
Now tell me how I can best set about making that wrong 
right.” 

She mused gravely for some minutes, then she looked 
earnestly at him. 

“Are you ready to follow the advice that I shall give 
you,” she asked, “even though it be in some measure 
painful .?” 

“Yes, I am quite willing, Ethel; I promise it,” he le- 
plied, gravely; and she knew that he would keep his word. 

“Then I will tell you what I think, Lord Carsdale, and 
how it is best for you to make the wrong right. Your first 
duty is now to your wife — to follow her, to find her, to 
atone to her for all that she has suffered ; to be a true, good, 
kind, loving husband to her ; to make some nice home 
for her abroad for some years, and then, if possiole, 'to 
seek a reconciliation with your parents; I do not think 
they will refuse it. 

“I will obey you, Ethel, implicitly,” he said. “You 
will let me write to you sometimes.? Home I know will 
be closed against me, and I am pledged not to tell my 
secret to my sister.” 

“Yes, you may write at times,” she replied. 

“And, Ethel, tell me that you forgive me. Give me 
some hope that in your thoughts you will not despise me.” 

“No, ’’she replied, simply. “ I have liked you too much 
for that. ” 


438 


A NOBLE WOMANS S ADVICE. 


**Tell me that I have not spoiled your life," he said; 
“that in the future you will be happy; tell me that, 
Ethel!" 

She shook her beautiful head gravely. 

“ It would be idle to pretend that I do not suffer. Lord 
Carsdale, I do ; but I hope, please God, my life is not all 
spoiled. You have gone the quietest way to work by dis- 
enchanting me, by letting me see that you could be weak 
enough to keep a secret, and let a woman suffer for it. I 
know that I shall be unhappy for a time, but I hope to 
forget all about it, and meet — with — a truer love." 

“Do you mean that, Ethel?" he asked, half sadly; 
“do you know " 

She held up her white, jeweled hand, with a charming 
gesture. 

“You are going to talk nonsense again," she said, 
“and I will not listen. If you wish to show your esteem 
for me, obey me promptly." 

“I intend doing so," he said. 

‘ ‘ After all that has happened, " she continued, “it would 
be quite impossible for you and me to remain in the same 
house. We must study appearances; they must be kept 
up, no matter what goes wrong, and I think it best for you 
to go at once, and I will remain ; women have more self- 
control than men. I can talk, sing, and laugh, where you 
would break down." 

“I have arranged to go at once," he said, sadly. “I 
shall not see my father or mother again. I leave soon 
after noon — and, Ethel, Ethel I when shall I see you, or 
the dear old home, or the old home faces again ?" 

“W'hen it shall please Heaven," she replied, reverently. 
“Tell me. Lord Carsdale, where do you think Ailie has 
gone ?" 


A NOBLE WOMAN ADVICE. 


439 


“ I can form no idea, but I shall find her,” he replied. 

‘‘That is right — that is earnest ; now let us say good-by. 
I must go back to Lady Gertrude ; she is waiting for me.” 

He sat quite still for a few minutes, then he said : 

‘ ‘ Good-by, Ethel ; may Heaven bless you with every 
blessing !” 

He held that white hand as though he would never let it 
go. He intended to do right. He regretted all the folly 
and imprudence he had been guilty of, but he was parting 
for ever with the woman that he loved, and might never 
see again. Those who have seen the face of the woman they 
love, yet dare not touch it — those who have listened to the 
voice they loved, yet dared not speak, may tell what he 
endured. He saw the beautiful, brilliant face grow paler 
and paler. She raised her lovely eyes to him. 

“ My strength is failing. Lord Carsdale,” she said. “I 
must go ;” and the next minute she had passed out of sight. 

“I must live it down,” she said to herself twenty times 
over, “ I must live it down. I have my life before me.” 

Lord Carsdale, after that farewell, did not re-enter the 
house. He walked to the station, intending to go to Lon- 
don that day ; his boxes and trunks would be sent after 
him. As he stood in the station it occurred to him that 
he had not the least idea where Ailie really was. She- might 
have gone home, but he did not think it likely. He in- 
quired of the clerk in the booking-office, who remembered 
one of the Roseneath footmen purchasing a first-class ticket 
for London. Then she had gone to London. What 
would she do there .? 

On arriving in London, he went at once to the Langham, 
and then it occurred to him that he should have more diffi- 
culty than he had anticipated in discovering where Ailie 
had taken refuge. 


440 


THE WHITE-FACED LADY. 


CHAPTER LXVI. 

THE WHITE-FACED LADY. 

“Then you have not seen Ailie tor some time?" asked 
Lord Carsdale of Rose Derwent. 

And the answer was, “ No." 

He had made all the search possible in London for his 
young wife, but could get no tidings of her. They re- 
membered her at the London Bridge Hotel ; and Patty, 
the kindly chamber-maid, when she heard of inquiries be- 
ing made about a young lady, told at once all that she had 
thought and suspected. Lord Carsdale talked to her him- 
self, and described Ailie exactly to her. 

“That is the ladyl" cried the girl. 

“And you have no idea where she went?" asked Lord 
Carsdale. “She mentioned no town, no place? ’ 

“ No," replied the chamber-maid, “none.” 

So there his clew ended. Naturally enough his next 
visit was to Rudeswell, to see if Ailie had reached home. 
This time he was so engrossed with anxiety that he quite 
forgot to note that which beforehand had so disgusted him 
— the dull street, the gloomy house, the evidence of 
poverty. He thought only of finding Ailie, and atoning 
to her for what she had suffered ; her heroism had been so 
great that, in his eyes, it ennobled even the most common- 
place surroundings. 

As a matter of course, the whole family were astonished 
to see him, and still more astounded at what he had to tell 
them ; for he would have no more concealment, and, send- 


THE WHITE-FACED LADY. 


441 


ing for the dancing-master and his astonished wife, he told 
the truth about his name, his title, and position. 

“At the same time,” he said, “I must tell you quite 
fairly that my marriage cuts me olf entirely from my family 
forever. It has been kept a secret from them all these 
years ; now they know it, and I have bidden them farewell 
forever. ” 

John Derwent and his wife were both overcome. 

“To think,” said John, “that such a thing should 
happen. ” 

“To think,” cried Mrs. Derwent, “that my daughter 
should be a lady of title. ” 

They were both speechless after that one remark. 

“ Of course,” continued Lord Carsdale, “now that my 
marriage is known, I should like to see you in a different 
position. I have influential friends, and I do not doubt 
in the least but that I can procure for you some little office 
under government, besides which I will settle a yearly in- 
come on you more than equivalent to that which you now 
earn. I shall have to trust to your good sense entirely 
never to mention my family or speak of them in any way, 
as it would lead to more harm than good.” 

John Derwent and his wife were both overwhelmed — 
they could say nothing. Then he made inquiries about . 
Frank, and learned that he gave promise, some day or 
other, of being a superb engineer. 

“I consider Frank's fortune made, sir,” said John Der- 
went, gratefully; “and I have you to thank for it, my 
lord — no one else. ” 

Then Lord Carsdale had to listen to the story of Rose's 
engagement to the young curate; and, looking at the 
girl's sweet face, he did not wonder at her marrying well. 


4^2 


THE WHITE.FACED LADY. 


Then Hettie looked up at him with one of her frank, 
strange smiles. 

“ I am not one of the genteel members of the family,” 
she said, “and I am not provided for, but I tell you one 
thing. Lord Carsdale, I would not marry a lord, as poor 
Ailie has done, without he loved me better than you loved 
her.” 

“You are right, Hettie. I do not excuse myself, but I 
will atone in the future for the errors of the past.” 

He would not alarm them by telling them that he had 
so completely lost all trace of Ailie ; he let them believe 
there had been some mistake about their, traveling. He 
found from his inquiries that none of them had any idea 
of Aide’s whereabouts. He went away as soon as he could, 
having but the one idea of finding her. 

The surprise, the wonder, the bewilderment that fell 
upon that little household ! Ailie, their beautiful Ailie, 
had married a lord ! Mrs. Derwent rocked herself pathetic- 
ally to and fro, wiping the great tears from her eyes. 

“I always said that Ailie was no common kind of girl,” 
she said, “but none would believe me.” 

The dancing-master looked at his fiddle, 

“You and I part now,” he said; “but you have been 
a true friend to me.” 

The secret was imparted, under all possible vows of 
secrecy, to the curate, who mentally congratulated himself 
on having made a good match. Visions of a good living, 
presented to him by his brother-in-law. Lord Carsdale, 
floated across his mind. 

In the meantime, Lord Carsdale himself was quite at a 
loss where to look. It was wonderful how one illusion 
after another drew him from place to place. Sometimes 
it was the story of a lady found drowned in the depths of 


THE WHITE-FACED LADY. 


443 


some swift, deep river ; again, it was the body of a lady 
washed ashore ; it was an unknown lady killed in a rail- 
way accident ; or it was the history of a mysterious death. 
Wherever he heard or read of anything of the kind, he 
went at once ; but, neither living nor dead, could he find 
any trace of Ailie. 

It was a railway accident that drew his attention to Fern- 
bay— an excursion train had coriie in collision with a heavy 
goods train, the result of which was the death of some 
twenty passengers and the injury of some twenty others. 
It ^\as nobody's fault — quite an accident, the servants of 
the company declared — one that no human intelligence 
could have foreseen. Among the list of the dead came a 
description of a lady unknown. She was described as very 
beautiful, with long golden hair ; and when Lord Carsda^e 
read it, his heart grew faint. He forgot how many beau- 
tiful women with golden hair there are in- this world, and 
he went direct to Fernbay. 

It was not Ailie. Before he reached there the golden- 
haired lady had been recognized by a husband, who was 
driven mad by her untimely death. Still, Lord Carsdale 
resolved upon staying there; it was a pretty place, and 
he had a pleasant memory of the one happy day that he 
had spent with Ailie there. He went to the same hotel 
where she had been so full of pretty, innocent wonder and 
surprise. They did not recognize him there. Later on 
that evening he walked down to the beach ; it was a 
curious place — quaint, old-fashioned, and, at times, very 
solitary. He walked past the pier, where the band was 
“discoursing eloquent music,” down by the cliffs, and 
stood there looking at an old, ruined jetty that ran out 
into the sea. It was a quiet, desolate place ; there w'as no 
sound of music, no gay promenaders, no children at play. 


444 


THE WHITE-FACED LADY. 


There lay the blue sea; the white cliffs sloped down to it. 
and from the shingle the black, ruined jetty ran out far 
and wide into the sea. Such a quaint, solitary scene had 
not met his eyes for years. He stood watching it, won- 
dering how that old jetty would look under a darkening 
sky, with great, dark waves leaping over it; ani as he so 
stood, there came ro him an old coast-guard, who touched 
his cap and began to talk. 

That jetty, he said, had been for years and years out of 
repair ; it was never used now. In times long past, queens 
and kings had landed on it; but now it was given up to a 
ghost. 

“It looks like a place to be haunted,” said Lord Cars- 
dale; “still, a sea-washed jetty is lather a strange place' 
for a ghost. What kind of a ghost is it.?” 

“Well, you know, sir, of course it is no ghost — there 
is no such thing ; but I tell you one thing, none of our 
young people would come here after dark, and I do not 
mind saying that I have often had a turn myself.” 

“ What is it, then.?” asked Lord Carsdale. 

“To tell you the truth, sir,” said the old man, “it is a 
lady. I think some great trouble has driven her mad. She 
looks like it.” 

“What does she do.?” continued Lord Carsdale, growing 
interested. 

“ Well, she never comes here, sir, before the gloaming, 
and she is so shadowy, so still, so white, and so beautiful, 
that people have a kind of dread of her. I have seen her 
often enough, and her face is quite transparent ; it is like 
marble with the moon shining on it. She seems always 
to come with the gloaming, and she goes away with the 
great darkness. She sits right at the end of the jetty, 
there where the water touches those black arches. I went 


THE WHITE-FACED LADY. 


445 


to her once,” continued the old man, seeing that his lis- 
tener was interested. “ I said to myself there was nothing 
to be afraid of, and I went to her. ‘Are you net afraid 
of the waves.?' I said to her; and, sir, I almost fell back 
into the sea myself when she raised her face and looked 
at me. I did not know that there could be such a face in 
all the world. ” 

“What was it like?” asked Lord Carsdale. 

“It would take one more clever than I am to tell that. 
It was like nothing I have ever seen on this earth ; it was 
beautiful, like the face of an angel in a picture, and it was 
filled with sorrow. It did not look as though she had 
cried — the grief on it was past all tears ; and yet there was 
a strange light, a curious strange light. I said to her, 
‘Are you not afraid of the waves?' and then she looked as 
I told you. It took me some time to get over that look. 
Then I said : ‘ When they reach these black arches they 
are dangerous,' I said. ‘ Yes, .1 know,' she replied ; and, 
for me, such a voice was worth hearing ; it was sweet and 
sad as a cooing dove. ‘ Do you know,’ I continued, ‘ that 
danger in this case means death?’ ‘Yes, I know it,' she 
answered. ‘You need not trouble about me. Do you 
see this mark here?’ She raised her hand — such a white 
hand, sir, like a snow-flake — and she pointed out to me a 
great black notch in the wood. ‘You see this?’ she re- 
peated, and I said ‘Yes.’ ‘I shall sit here,’ she said, 

‘ night after night until the waves reach here, and when 
they reach here I shall die. Oh, welcome death ! Oh, 
beautiful death! I shall die; it will not be suicide; I 
shall not kill myself ; but the waves will carry me so gently 
out to sea — so gently, so sweetiyi’ Sir, I drew back, 
frightened at her; neither her face nor her voice were like 
anything earthly. That was more than two weeks since ; 


446 


IVON AT LAST. 


now I watch her, and I have my boat ready. If ever I see 
her in danger, I shall do my best to save her.” 

“It is a strange story,” said Lord Carsdale. 

“All the young people are shy of going near the jetty. 
It used to be a famous place for love-making; now, when 
that silent figure steals so gently and quietly along, every 
one vanishes as though by magic.” 

“What time do you say the poor lady comes?” asked 
Lord Carsdale. 

“Only in the gloaming, sir; only in the gloaming,” 
said the old man, as he walked away. 


CHAPTER LXVII. 

WON AT LAST. 

Could a be Allied” Lord Carsdale asked himself the 
question over and over again. 

Why had his thoughts flown to her at once? why should 
that strong, swift, keen, secret conviction have seized him — 
that it was she, and no one else? It seemed to him, now 
that he thought of it, natural enough that she should come 
to Fernbay — the one happy day of her life had been spent 
here. Could it be Ailie, this woman of unearthly beauty, 
who was only waiting until the green waves reached that 
black notch and carried her away? He looked after the 
old man, wishing that he had made further inquiries, that 
he had asked more about her, that he had tried to make 
out where she came from. Then he said to himself that 
he would wait until the gloaming, and see for himself. 


l^ON AT LAST. 


447 


Suddenly he remembered that he could not wait — he 
had promised to send off a telegram, and he must do it at 
once ; he could return as soon as the gloaming fell. 

He went, dispatched his business, and returned. The 
gloaming had fallen then, a slight silver mist hung over the 
sea ; the waves ran smoothly, they were crested with white 
foam ; the wind was still, and seemed to brood over the / 
water rather than to stir it. / 

It was so dark, as he walked up that lonely jetty, that he' 
could hardly see; then, as he drew nearer — down at the 
farther end, opposite to the black arches, and watching 
them intently — he saw the silent, solitary figure of a 
woman. 

In his after life Lord Carsdale could hardly describe 
what followed ; it seemed to him that that very moment 
he passed from the regions of commonplace and common 
life into those of romance — the darkening night, the long, 
low wash of the waves, the heaving of the silent sea, the 
line of lights in the far distance, the tall white cliffs stand- 
ing so erect and defiant, the lonely jetty with the sea break- 
ing over it, and that one figure watching so intently. 

Could it be Ailie? He stood and watched — how long 
he never knew, he could never tell. The darkness crept 
on apace ; the great ruby light at the end of the jetty sent 
out a strange, 'livid flame ; still the silent figure sat there, 
watching the dark arches; and Lord Carsdale stood quite 
still, watching it. ^ 

Then came a strange, sweet sound — at first he thought 
it was the distant music ; then it grew so strange, so sad 
and sweet, he could have believed the old fable of the mer- 
maid ; then he recognized the air— a favorite dreamy Ger- 
man melody, called “The Lonely it seemed to float over 
the waves, and die away in their murmur. 


448 


H^OJ\r AT LAST. 


It was Ailie singing — he knew the voice. He was quite 
certain of her then, and he thanked Heaven for the in- 
stinct that had led him to find her. He said to himself 
that he must be cautious ; perhaps what they said about 
her was true— that her great sorrow had driven her mad ; 
he must not distress her by suddenly speaking to her. He 
went nearer to her, and the shadow that the ruby light 
threw on the jetty was at her feet, but she never saw it. 
Then, more cautiously still, he went near her, and looked 
in her face ; it was Ailie — but, great Heaven ! how changed, 
how wan, how white ! Her face, as the old man said, was 
transparent — it was unearthly in its clear transparency ; the 
sorrow that filled it was not of the kind that finds relief in 
tears. He saw that she looked neither to the right nor the 
left, that she never took her eyes from the great notch on 
the black arches. 

He pictured to himself the clear, green waves rising 
slowly higher and higher, until they covered the sweet, sad 
face, and bore her away with them. 

The picture troubled him so greatly he dare not be 
silent any longer. What if she rose suddenly and walked 
from the end of the jetty into the sea? 

He stood before her — he touched her gently, and called 
her by name. 

“Ailie!” he said; “Ailie, my wife !” 

There was no madness in the gaze she turned on him, 
nothing but unutterable sadness — unutterable sorrow. She 
did not seem surprised to see him ; perhaps she had thought 
so much about him that it gave her no surprise to see him 
there. Her face could grow no whiter than it had done, 
but a strange light came into her eyes. She never dreamed 
that he was there for any other purpose but to blame her. 
She clasped her hands and looked into his face. 


IVOJV AT LAST. 


449 


*‘I did not betray you, Lord Carsdale,” she raid. “I 
did not tell one single word. I would not have spoken if 
they had killed me.” 

Then she looked from him to the dark arches, where the 
waves rose slowly. 

“Ailie,” he said, gently, “will you tell me what you 
are doing here.?” 

“Yes,” she replied. “I am waiting until the water 
reaches that rock, then it will carry me* away.” 

“You know that will be suicide,” he said. 

“I do not think so; the soft, green waves will fetch 
me — I shall not throw myself in.” 

“But, Ailie, why do you wish to die.?” he asked. 

“Because my miserable life stands between you and 
your happiness,” she replied; “because life is bitter, and 
death is sweet.” 

“My darling Ailie — my dear wife — listen to me,” he 
said. “I have followed you here, I have looked for you 
everywhere, because I want to tell you that at last I have 
learned to love you — and that I want you to try and be happy 
as my wife. ” 

There was no rapture of love in the pale face, no light 
such as he had dreamed his words would bring there, no 
gleam of joy. She looked at him with gentle, mournful 
dignity. 

“ You forget,” she said, “you told me that you loved 
Lady Ethel.” 

There was no reproach, no anger in her tones ; nothing 
but the most gentle incredulity. 

“I know it,” he said ; “ but, Ailie, listen to me. I have 
come so far to see you, my darling ; make room for me by 
your side.” 

She drew aside her dress, and he sat down by her. 


450 


irON AT LAST. 


“I want to tell you, Ailie, how your heroism has 
touched me. My darling, take your eyes from that ter- 
rible rock ; the clear, green waves shall never take you 
away — your only home shall be henceforward in my heart. 
Ailie, you said once, long ago, that love wins love ; and it 
is true. Your great love for me has won love from me.’' 

Still she looked at him, and said : 

“It is Lady Ethel you love, not me.” 

“My darling wife, what must I say to convince you that 
it is you whom I love, and no other.? Lady Ethel and I 
have parted ; we shall not meet again ; and I gave up my 
life to seeking for you, just as now I shall give it up to 
making you happy.” 

“It cannot be true,” she said, musingly. 

“It is true, Ailie. I cannot even tell you when I began 
to think so much about you ; I frankly own that it puzzled 
me myself; I did not believe it was possible that I was 
learning to love you. Your face touched me; the sweet, 
sad eyes haunted me ; the sound of your voice never left 
me, and I said to myself I must be learning to love my 
wife at last.” 

He took the two cold, white hands in his. 

“Then, when I came back — I was only so short a time 
absent, Ailie — when I came back, and I found that my 
beautiful wife had suddenly become a heroine, that for my 
sake, because she would not betray me, she had endured 
insult and calumny — that she had sacrificed even her fair 
name for me by refusing to justify herself at my expense. 
I said to myself, my wife is a heroine, the greatest heroine 
of all ; there is no one like her. Quite suddenly, my dar- 
ling, you became invested in my eyes with every great and 
glorious quality — with endurance, with patience, with for- 
titude, with self-denial. What love was this? I said to 


fFOJ\r AT LAST. 


451 


myself; the world had seen none like it — so beautiful, so 
brave, so devoted ! And, Ailie, while I stood listening to 
what my mother said about you, my heart seemed stirred 
with a new, sudden, great love — a love that swept through 
my whole being like a flame, before which all other love 
faded, and I said to myself, ‘ I will make myself worthy of 
my wife.’” 

She looked up at him timidly. 

“Is it really true, Lord Carsdale, that you love me — 
that you wish to be worthy of me.? — is it really true.?” 

“It is quite true, Ailie. Let me tell you something 
else. I have been to Rudeswell, and have made them 
all happy there. I have told them who I am, and all about 
our marriage. I have done the same thing at home, so 
that there need be no more secrecy.” 

Some little color had come into the beautiful face, a 
lovely color that came and went; the unearthly light faded 
from her face, and something of human interest came 
into it. 

“I have been here so long,” she said, “waiting for 
death, that my eyes are dazzled with the great, strong light 
of eternity. What did Lady Waldrove say.? She was very 
angry, I know. I tremble when I think of her. ” 

“She was angry, and my father, too; but, my darling 
Ailie, I am going to take you to Austria ; and when we 
have been there a few years they will forget all anger, and 
be glad to see me back again. ” 

He spoke more cheerfully than he felt on that one sub- 
ject. Then he told her all that Lady Ethel had said. 

“Now will you believe that I love you, my wife.? If 
you knew how ashamed I feel of all my cowardice, how 
angry I have been with myself for my want of courage, you 
would forgive me. Believe that I love you, my darling 


452 


PVOAT AT LAST. 


wife, when I give up with a smile everything man holds 
most dear — country, home, friends, parents, all for the one 
true love of my life.” 

There was a lingering look of incredulity on her face, 
but as he clasped her in his arms, and covered her face 
with passionate tears, it vanished never to return. She 
held her hands for one minute above her head, then she 
said : 

‘ ‘ I thank God that He has given me the desire of my 
heart. ” 

The stars came out in the dark sky, the moon shone on 
the waters, and long hours had passed before they quitted 
the solitary pier.' It was not the same Ailie; those who 
had feared her before would not know her now; all the 
sorrow and sadness had passed from her beautiful face, and 
it w^as bright with the happiest love. It seemed to her that 
no me had ever been so happy before, or so blessed. She 
asked so many questions about home — what her father and 
mother had said.? what Rose’s lover was like.? was all the 
grand news over Frank true? And Lord Carsdale, seeing 
how deeply it interested her, never wearied of telling her 
every detail of the interview. 

Two days afterward they started for Vienna, where, in 
the course of a few months. Lady Carsdale was known as 
one of the most beautiful and brilliant ornaments of a bril- 
liant court. She w^as happy beyond all words in her hus- 
band’s love, and he had learned to value her. 


ANGELS OF PEACE. 


453 


CHAPTER LXVIII. 

ANGELS OF PEACE. 

K -Six years had passed since the terrible day on which the 
p Dud Countess of Waldrove had owned, with bitter tears, 
th :’ thp hopes of her life lay buried. Lady Gertrude s 
mau^oge was one of the most brilliant ceremonies ever 
witnessed at Roseneath. The Duke and Duchess of Clav- 
erdon were present, and the most elaborate apologies were 
made for the unavoidable absence of the son and heir. 
He was in Vienna, and could not get away. Lord Cars- 
dale had sold out of his regiment before he left England, 
and the appointment he held in Vienna was a diplomatic 
one. 

The countess owned herself more than content with the 
grandeur of the marriage. Her daughters, the Duchess of 
Clave rdon and Lady Rawdon, visited her very often, bring- 
ing with them blooming children, the sight of whom made 
her heart ache with longing for her son. 

During all these years Lord Carsdale had not written 
home. Perhaps had he prayed for pardon and reconcilia- 
tion, the earl and the countess might have hardened their 
hearts against him ; as it was, his submission and silence 
had softened them. 

One event had happened which had brought back all 
the old bitterness to Lady Waldrove — Lady Ethel had mar- 
ried that most handsome, irresistible of all woers, Captain 
i\Ioore. She had become the Countess of Hurlingham 
since her marriage, and on each visit to Roseneath she 


454 


ANGELS OF PEACE. 


never ceased to weary both earl and countess with impor- 
tunities to send for their son. > 

“It was such nonsense,” she said ; “the deed was done 
now. Lord Carsdale had proved himself to be a hero., 
As for his wife, the British peerage,” she dauntlessly de- 
clared, “did not hold such another.” 

There was nothing but good news from the Derwents^ 
Through the influence of Lord Carsdale, Rose’s lover, th^’ 
Reverend Cuthbert Lodes, had been presented with a good 
living in Yorkshire, where he and his amiable wifc^ lived 

n > , ^ 

the happiest of lives. Frank had made his mark, and bid 
fair to be one of the leading civil engineers of the .day. 
John Derwent and his wife had retired to a very pretty 
little farm in the sunniest part of Kent, where they lived 
as they had never hoped to live, and Hettie was with 
them. 

Nothing but good news from all parts of the world, and 
Lady Ailie Carsdale rejoiced in it. 

There came a beautiful spring morning — the sun was 
shining, the balmy air was filled with the perfume of 
mignonette and lilac. The Earl and Countess of Wal- 
d^-ove sat alone in their breakfast-room at Roseneath Abbey 
— a beautiful room, gay with pink hangings and white 
lace, fragrant with lovely white hyacinths and jonquils. 
The sun shone in through the windows, and its light fell 
on the beautiful flowers, the massive silver, the delicate 
china, and fine damask. It was a very pretty and luxurious 
home picture — the countess in her dainty morning-robe 
and cap of Mechlin lace, the earl in his dressing-gown — a 
cozy home picture. My lady touched the white hyacinths, 
she looked at the green-springing mignonette, she lingered 
over the fragrant tea ; and then, with a great sigh, she said 
to the earl : 


ANGELS OF PEACE. 


455 


“lam very lonely; I am very dull.*’ 

“ It is dull,” said the earl. “ We seem to be lost in this 
great, empty house. I have felt quite gloomy since Ger- 
trude and her children went away.” 

The same unspoken thought lay deep in the heart of 
both — an intense longing to have their son near them 
again. 

Suddenly the silvery, musical chiming of a child's laugh- 
ter s heard. Lady Waldrove looked up quickly. 



^^■^Vhat was that?” she asked. 

The earl did nut move. 

“Some of the servants have little visitors, I should 
imagine,” he said. 

But the words died on his lips, for the door suddenly ' 
and slowly opened, and then entered the loveliest pair of 
little children ever beheld. 

There was a little girl with a face like a rosebud, lovely, 
laughing eyes, and sweet lips, with shining, golden hair 
that lay over the whitest shoulders ever seen — a little fairy, 
full of grace and dignity. She looked neither to the right 
nor to the left, but went straight up to the earl, and 
standing in front of him, raised her lovely, limpid eyes to 
his face. 

“Will you please forgive my mamma?*’ she said. 

A handsome, dark-haired boy, with a true Carsdale face, 
and dark, flashing eyes — a frank, bold, brave boy, who 
won her heart at a glance, went up to Lady Waldrove, 
and said : 

“Will you forgive my papa?” 

“God bless me!” cried the earl. “Who are these? 
Who are you, my dear?” 

“ I am Lucie Carsdale,” said the little fairy. 


456 


ANGELS OF PEACE. 


"‘And I,” said the boy, “am Stephen Carsdale — named 
after my grandfather, the grand old earl/' 

“And who sent you here?” 

“Papa and mamma sent us. Papa bids me say he loves 
you both, and he longs to come home to you. He says 
you will love mamma when you know her. ” 

It was useless for the countess to speak, for the earl had 
clasped both the pretty messengers in his arms. 

“I should refuse the angels of God,” he said, “ if I 
refuse you. ” 

“Shall you forgive our boy?” said the countess. 

And the grand old earl, in a faltering voice, said : 

“ I will, I will, as I hope one day to be forgiven.” 

There was still another surprise for them. Lady Ethel 
followed the little ones into the room. 

“I am an uninvited guest,” she said ; “but, I am sure, 
a welcome one. I have brought these dear children. Lord 
and Lady Carsdale wait outside.” 

The next moment the son was in his mother's arms, and 
the earl had embraced his son’s wife. It was the prettiest 
scene ever witnessed, and one' which must have made the 
angels smile. 

They lived happily ever afterward. The countess learned 
to love very dearly the beautiful, graceful woman who was 
her son’s wife. There was no more popular lady in Eng- 
land than Lady Carsdale ; but, when she is speaking 
seriously, she says there is no greater folly than that of an 
unequal marriage. 





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